House Of Cards book 2:The Darkness Before The Dawn
by graceofgod
Summary: Finding a way home is only the beginning. Trying to deal with the aftermath of the revenants' attack, the Winchesters find themselves in over their heads when a simple hunt turns deadly, with terrifying consequences for them both.
1. So That You Might Save Me

_And then from far away,  
Who's that I see come riding?_

_Upon a pale white horse,  
Come riding fast as lightning._

**Starbird Corner, Maine**

**October 30****th****, 2008**

_His jaw trembled as he waited and he swallowed hard, sickened by the deep shadows turning Dean's vacant eyes into hollows, the thin slit of green barely visible through long lashes clumped together into dark 'vees', staring back at him, past him, through him into a place he couldn't even begin to imagine._

"_I'm sorry, man. Come b-back."_

_Sam's shoulders hitched once, twice, his vision blurring and his face twisted as he wrapped his hand around Dean's, tears burning his throat, drowning him as they splashed onto their joined hands._

"_Don't leave me, Dean. D-don't you dare leave m-me alone again," he stuttered, his head dropping as he hunched forward, curling around his brother's silence and never breaking it as the sobs wracked him._

_**~~HoC~~**_

He never knew how long he sat there, the empty stare a razor scraping across his skin as he wept, bowed his head until his brow rested against their hands. He didn't see the shadows lengthen, reach out to envelop them in the dark; didn't see the door open, Bobby's eyes too bright as he froze on the threshold and turned away again, shoulders slumped with defeat and sorrow.

All he felt was the chill in the skin under his fingers, shuddering away from the memory of his brother's torn, broken body cooling in his arms, even from the phantom touch of strong arms pulling him close, barely a month before, holding him so tight he almost didn't feel the tremors shaking Dean to the core. He realised with a pang of guilt that it had been fear as much as anything that shook his brother that day, fear that the resurrected hunter was terrified of being torn away, of losing him again. Fear that had made him lock his arms around Sam, so tight the younger man could barely breathe. He hadn't noticed it at the time, only caring about the feel of his brother's heart pounding against his ribs.

His hand tightened as he stole a single glance up at the empty eyes staring past him, his mind painting them with all the fear from that moment, a deceitful glint of life that sickened him. His knuckles turned white as he held on desperately, not even sure what he was holding on to anymore. Slowly, the night deepened, drenched the motel in silence and darkness. Sam didn't move, his tears finally spent, his bloodshot eyes dry and aching as he stared at the tangle of fingers, too close to focus on, the shadows beyond shifting, changing. Dimly, as if it was from another world that ended at their door, he heard the growl of a familiar engine, the air echoing with the Dodge's thunder long after it had rumbled into silence. Heavy footsteps thumped against the wooden steps but the door didn't open and he never looked up, just stared down at their hands.

_**~~HoC~~**_

_He was nothing. Lost in the cold and the dark, turning away from the touch of warmth against his skin, seeing only pale eyes, too close, smelling decay on a dead man's whisper as it brushed across his face._

_Hands pulled at him, a thousand directions at once, all of them trying to drag him back to the light and the heat of the world. He fought them, twisted away, cried out silently but there were too many and the dark shifted, changed to memory again before he could stop it, before he could hide in the cold and the dark again and as it dragged him under he screamed silently._

He'd been here before.

Arms burning, pulled too tight behind him as cramps spasmed through his shoulders, making his body twitch helplessly, until finally numbness spread slowly, blessedly through his muscles.

He blinked, forced one eye open, felt something tacky gluing the other one shut and peered into the dark. He was lying half on his side, gritty concrete grating against his skin, the room fuzzy, full of hazy shadows that shifted constantly. Dean shivered, lifted his head an inch, swallowed a groan as the throbbing in his skull intensified and let it sink back to the floor.

He tried to hold himself still, each tremor that slipped through his control igniting every nerve ending, setting them ablaze in a fire that swept through his body, taking his breath away. The battered hunter panted, short, shallow gasps all he could manage through the pain as he risked opening his eyes again. The shadows still swung and danced around him, his eye trying to follow them until the motion and the shivering and the hurt made his stomach lurch.

He rolled further onto his side, chest and sides heaving as he retched, vomited up thin bile stained pink with blood, crying out as the contractions sent jolts of pain screaming through him. He dazedly thought he must have spewed up most of his insides by the time he slumped back, flopping weakly over onto his bound hands, staring blearily up at the naked bulb swinging from the ceiling. Slowly, his mind cleared a little, the rhythmic, pounding in his skull fading back to a distant thunder and he realised he was lying in a familiar cellar, stripped almost naked, shivering helplessly as he turned his head to see the old, old stains on the floor, the heater on the other side of the scuffed circle still decorated with tattered, rotten strands of rope.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered roughly, fighting back the sting in his eyes as his dazed mind supplied the image of his brother, young and terrified, pulled tight against a dead man's chest in the middle of the circle. He rolled away from it, turning to the blank wall, squeezing his eyes shut and swallowing hard.

The door above and behind him clicked, scraped open and he froze as he heard soft steps on the stairs. They echoed gently, dully until they stopped, too close and he couldn't stop the flinch as a cold, cold hand closed around his shoulder, pulled him over onto his back again and pale blue eyes met his.

"Hello, Dean. I'd say good to see you again, but I'm not sure you'd agree."

"What the hell do you want?"

The dead man ignored his question, hunkering down next to him and regarding the hunter thoughtfully.

"You know, I never thought about you and your family again. I didn't look for you, didn't hunt you down. I was done."

"Right," Dean spat, trying to ignore the tremors in his arms as the numbness gave way to the adrenaline rushing through him. "'Cause you're the forgiving type."

The revenant shrugged.

"Didn't see the point in it. But when I saw that shiny, black car in the parking lot, well. It was like serendipity."

"Oh, save me the destiny crap, will ya?"

The soft laugh echoed around him, the sound slowly fading away as he squirmed under the cold stare that pinned him to the floor.

"You lose, Dean. You and your family."

He tried to scoff at the quiet murmur, tried to laugh it off as his mind scrabbled to find some snarky comment and came up empty. His sneer withered and he gazed back at the dead man, shivering again as a chill seemed to seep out from the other man and settle over him, into him.

"You lose," the revenant almost whispered, standing and hesitating a moment, a smile twisting his lips into a sneer as he turned and walked away, climbing the stairs quickly as the worn wooden steps groaned under his weight.

The door slammed shut, the light snapping off a heartbeat later and Dean gnawed at his lip, glad of the wall at his back as his head span sickeningly, the concussion and the darkness disorienting him.

The quiet whimper that cut through the dark made his blood run cold.

He held himself still, barely even breathing as he strained his ears, his good eye wide. Slowly, faint shuffling sounds emerged from the silence as he hesitated, torn between the deep-seated fear of the unseen and the trembling instinct in his gut that told him whatever was out there in the dark with him needed help, needed him.

A soft cry, weak and tearful, made his mind up.

"Hey!" he called, keeping his voice as low as he could. The noises stilled, fear heavy on the cold air as he squirmed his way to sit up against the wall.

"Hey, it's okay. I'm not gonna hurt you."

He waited, heard ragged breathing, something in the back of his mind screaming at him that it was _wrong, it sounded all wrong,_ but he shut the tiny voice down and leant forward a little.

"My name's Dean. Can you hear me?"

He heard a scuffing sound, couldn't stop himself flinching back as it drew closer, until he felt the air in front of him move and he lowered his voice to a whisper.

"Hey, you okay? What's your name?"

He held his breath in the silence, waiting.

"S...Sammy. Sam."

He couldn't move, couldn't remember how to breathe as the young, terrified voice slammed into him, the world spinning around him. Vertigo swamped him, dizzy, he leaned away from the presence he could feel in front of him and retched, mind trembling under the onslaught of memory, of _Sammy, curled into the dead leaves at his feet as dead men circled them; Sammy, cowering in the middle of a circle painted on the dusty floor; __**Sammy **__pulled against a dead man's chest, eyes terrified, trusting him desperately._

"Dean?"

"God," he whispered, spitting out the sour taste in his mouth and sinking back into the wall, the sound of his name in that young, scared voice shaking him.

"Are you okay?"

_Not Sam. Not Sam. Not Sam._

He kept repeating the mantra in his head as he turned his head towards the boy he couldn't see.

"Yeah," he grated. "Sorry. You okay?"

He felt the nod, the boy hovering just inches from him.

"Where you from, S-Sam?"

_Not Sam. Not Sam!_

"M-Mustang. Nevada."

Guilt dug at him, twisted snake-like in his stomach.

_They took him to get to me._

"You live with your folks?" he asked, forcing normalcy into his voice as if they were sat waiting for a bus instead of locked in a cellar full of memories that kept trying to overwhelm him again.

"M-my m-m-mom."

Dean frowned, hearing Sam stutter, a cold arm knocking against his as the boy shivered.

"You cold, buddy?"

Another nod, felt rather than seen and he leant forward, hesitating an inch from the thin shoulder as the voice in the back of his mind screamed up at him. He shook it off again, nudged gently at the boy until he shifted against his side. Long hair tickled his bruised jaw as Sam leant into him, skin like ice where it touched his, the boy's clothes damp and rough against his aching ribs.

"How old are you, Sam?"

He knew the answer, could feel it in the long hair, the awkward length of the limbs that wrapped around him, clinging, seeking warmth in the dark.

"Thirt-teen."

They talked softly, murmured questions as he tried to fight off the disorientation, tried to remember that this wasn't his brother, _not Sam not Sam not Sam _running endlessly through his mind. Slowly, the boy relaxed against him, rested his head against the hunter's shoulder, his breath puffing against the base of Dean's neck.

Lulled by weariness and memory, the hunter drifted a little, let his head roll back against the wall. The jolt of adrenaline that shot through him as teeth sank into his shoulder hurt almost as much as the bite.

_He'll live forever and he'll never forget the taste of your blood._

He yelled hoarsely, kicked out at the whisper in his head, at the boy, cringing as his foot slammed into a thin shoulder. A low snarl sent a shiver down his spine as he felt blood trickle down his chest.

The air shifted and he lashed out again, putting all his strength into the blow and it landed with brutal force. He overbalanced, sprawled forward as he heard a body hit the ground, a sickening crack snapping ice through his veins. He lay there, struggling to breathe through the pain that swamped him, listening to the silence that suddenly seemed so much more complete than it had before.

The light flickered on, blinding him and he flinched, eyes burning. The stairs creaked and groaned and he scrambled back against the wall, blinking furiously as a shadow fell across him. He looked up at pale blue eyes staring down at him, devoid of anything human.

The revenant smiled, a lifeless twist of his narrow lips. He stepped back as hands reached past the hunter, grabbing hold of Dean's arms and savagely dragging him up. Cold fingers tore at the ropes around his wrists until the fibres scraped the skin and the old, faded scars beneath them bloody then finally snapped. He couldn't tear his gaze away from the silent man, still smiling faintly, watching as the rest of them bound his arms in front of him, lashing his wrists to a chain and hoisting him up until his toes barely brushed the floor. His ribs screamed as his own weight stretched his body, broken bones grating against each other, his breathing shortened with the pressure on his diaphragm and still he couldn't look away from the revenant as the dead man moved in close again, reaching up to the bite on his shoulder, dragging cold fingers through the blood and lifting them to his lips.

"You sick fuck." Dean forced out, panting for air as his head span and his vision blurred in and out of focus. The revenant smiled, teeth stained crimson and stepped back. The hunter flinched as the small body, crumpled at the base of the wall in front of him swam into view and he dropped his head, eyes fluttering closed.

A hand clamped around his jaw, yanking his head back up, a low snarl stirring the hairs on the side of his head.

"You'll look, Dean. You'll look at what you've done."

"Go to hell, you son-of-a-bitch."

The sound of glass shattering almost drowned out his growl but he heard a low chuckle, felt the fingers dig into his jaw as another hand gripped his shoulder like a vice. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, until spots danced across the reddish-black behind them, shuddering as he felt something jagged and cold press against his back.

But he couldn't stop his eyes snapping open as it tore down, parallel to his spine, a shocked gasp escaping him as white-hot agony ripped through him. He tried to twist away from the body on the floor, a low cry escaping him as he saw familiar long hair for the first time, _not Sam, _fading to a dull echo as blood spilled down his back, sliding hot and thick over his legs to spatter the floor beneath his feet. The hand wrapped around his jaw was pulled away but he watched helplessly as the dead man stepped into his view again, held up the jagged end of a bottle, blood dark inside it, spilling over the shattered edges as he crossed to the boy and crouched.

"...never forget, he'll live forever and he'll never forget..."

The memory slid unbidden from the hunter's lips in a listless whisper, bringing a smile to the revenant's lips as he lifted the boy's upper body easily, Sam's head lolling too far back before he cradled it gently, almost tenderly, holding the make-shift chalice to the teen's blued lips. All Dean could do was watch as his own blood trickled from the corners of the boy's lips, shivering in revulsion as he saw Sam's throat work then young hands came up, pressed the broken bottle closer and Dean's stomach roiled as he heard the boy suck greedily at the last few drops of the blood. The revenant eased the dead boy down again, stood and crossed to the hunter.

"I knew you'd remember soon enough. Just like I said, Dean, your Daddy killed my family so I'll replace it with his. Starting with little Sammy here."

"No. Not Sam. 'S not Sam," Dean murmured, gaze fixed to the child swaying on his knees. The revenant at his shoulder laughed softly, leant closer and whispered in his ear, "Are you sure, Dean? Sure enough?"

They left him hanging there, eyes locked on the boy as Sam's head came up, hazel eyes cold as they darted to the blood still dripping from his feet, a low, hungry growl bubbling up in his throat. Silently, tears slipped unchecked, barely noticed down the hunter's cheeks.

"'M sure. Not Sam. It can't be Sammy. Can't be..." the light snapped out and his whisper faded into the dark...

_... and he let go, sank back into the cold emptiness where he couldn't feel the tears drowning him anymore, feeling the warmth on his skin slowly sink deeper into him. More tears splashed hot onto his hand but this time they didn't burn, didn't rip something apart inside him. They lifted him, gently, until the dark changed again and the cold slipped down into the back of his mind._

_**~~HoC~~**_

He almost missed it.

So weary, so broken by the exhaustion settling into his bones he could barely see, he almost missed the faintest touch of pressure against his hand. He froze, didn't dare move in case he woke himself up from the dream, but it didn't come again and he let out a slow, broken sigh, thick with the last few tears that welled up, burning in his eyes again.

They slid over his knuckles, landed hot against the cold skin wrapped in his and it twitched. Sam's head snapped up, his eyes still fixed on his hand, on his brother's as it slowly, so slowly, tightened around his fingers. He looked up, almost dreading what he might see, still half-convinced he was dreaming, a single, shattered laugh escaping him as he saw his brother, _looking _at him, green eyes dulled with pain but awake.

"Dean?"

Dean blinked, eyes slipping closed, climbing back up to half-mast as if they carried the weight of the world.

"Hey, hey, stay awake man. You with me?"

For a moment that seemed to last an eternity his brother didn't answer, his gaze slipping past Sam into the distance and the younger man's heart froze between beats, his hand trembling with the force of his grip as he saw the terrible emptiness return to the haunted green eyes.

_No. Don't you dare._

"S'm?"

He choked up at the faint breath of sound, throat filled with a lump of solid, molten iron that burned as he forced words out past it.

"Yeah, yeah I'm right here. I'm right here Dean."

Dean sighed, a wince flickering across his pale face and Sam swallowed hard as he watched his brother struggle to focus on him, eyes wandering sluggishly down to their hands as his fingers twitched again and Sam finally realised his knuckles were white and stinging he was squeezing so tight.

"Oh God, sorry, sorry Dean."

He let go, almost snatching his hand back but Dean caught him weakly, holding on to his hand as a slow smile trembled on his lips, not reaching his eyes. He curled his fingers around the younger man's and Sam mirrored the gesture gently, the tears still drying on their hands. Dean fought off the shivers trying to spread through him, pushed the cold down to the base of his spine, letting the sight of his brother grinning back at him wash away the vision of a younger boy, lips bloody and dark eyes feral as the shadows took them both.

He sighed again, carefully, feeling the sharp ache of his ribs pushing against the tight wrappings supporting them and blinked against the pain. Sam's hand brushed through his hair, lingering against his brow and he rolled his head into it a little as the cold skated up his spine, curled around his ribs, seeking, searching in the dark behind his eyes. The warmth of his brother's touch held it away, pushed it back with a quiet, patient whisper he didn't hear as Sam murmured beside him.

"It's okay man. Get some rest. I'm right here."

_Don't let go, Sammy._

He couldn't say it, couldn't hold on to the world anymore, just clung to the touch, warm against his skin as he slipped away into the silent dark again.


	2. He said, never mind, and no one speaks

_He needs a quiet room_

_with a lock to keep him in._

_It's just a quiet room,_

_and he's there._

_**~~HoC~~**_

**Singer's Auto Salvage, South Dakota,**

**November 5th, 2008**

_He was too late._

_The door splintered under his boot, and he knew he was too late._

_The dead boy stared at him, lips bloody, dark eyes so like - __**too **__like - his own glazed and blind and he knew it was over. He was far too late._

_He didn't need to turn, couldn't stop himself crawling, dragging himself across the filthy, dusty floor, hand impossibly heavy as he reached out, barely hearing Bobby choke out, "Sam, wait."_

_He rolled the still, limp figure towards him, moaned softly, low in his throat as his brother's face lolled against his wrist, eyes hooded and staring emptily, accusingly at him above the jagged ruin where his throat had been and he knew he was far, far too late._

He bolted up with a cry, sheets winding around his arms, entangling them as he fought his way free, gasping for breath. His skin prickled, the cold night air brushing across sweat-drenched skin and he shivered, finally slouched down, his t-shirt clinging to his back as his spine curved. He lifted his hands to his face; ground the heels of his palms into his eyes until the pressure made him hiss in pain.

Gradually, his breathing slowed, his heartbeat steadying again as he shrugged off the nightmare, realising with a sigh that he wouldn't get any more sleep tonight. The pictures were just too raw, too vivid in his head every time he closed his eyes. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, curling his toes into the lingering warmth in the carpet and leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees and gazing steadily at the other bed.

"You okay?"

Sam didn't answer for a moment, taking in the tension in his brother's shoulder, the way the older man didn't turn, just twisted his head enough for him to see the gaunt hollows of Dean's cheeks, the dark bruising around his eyes as they flashed once, then were hidden in the shadows again a moment later.

His stare flickered to the stark dressings on his brother's back, just visible under the quilt that was tugged up around Dean's chin, skated over the bandages wrapping the knuckles clenched tight in a fist. Sam winced a little as he saw the fresh bloodstains on the recently pristine white, took in the way the fist trembled faintly.

"Yeah," he muttered, finally pushing to his feet, the mattress springing back up with a whisper. "You want coffee?"

He didn't wait for his brother's nod, just padded silently from the room in his t-shirt and sweat pants, the nightly ritual offering scant comfort now. Slipping through the dark house, he grinned wryly as he passed a closed door and heard soft snoring beyond and he made his way down stairs, knowing which risers would creak and which would bear his burden without complaint.

Weaving easily through the precarious stacks of books littered around Bobby's house, the hunter shut the kitchen door carefully, letting the latch click over before he reached for the kettle. He winced as the pipes clanked loudly, water sputtering a few times before rushing out to fill the kettle. Making a note to check the pressure in the morning - _later _in the morning, he amended with a quick glance at his watch; he flicked the stove on and dumped the kettle on the hob. As long as he kept moving, he could pretend he didn't see the images that followed him out of the dreams every night, close enough to the truth to make shaking them off next to impossible. Especially when he was faced with the all too real evidence of that truth every day, in the slowly healing wounds his brother carried, inside and out.

Leaning against the counter, Sam sighed, rubbing wearily at his face, trying to scrub the tiredness away. Five days, since his brother had been nothing but a broken shell, empty and shattered, five days of one or both of them waking up screaming and he was exhausted. He knew Dean had stopped sleeping; marvelling at the older man's ability to keep his battered body going on nothing but catnaps. At the same time, it terrified and infuriated him, his brother's recovery slowed to a virtual crawl, a low grade fever settling in as his abused body grew steadily weaker.

The kettle boiled with a thin whistle and he reached out automatically, spun the gas off and left it there as he stared at nothing.

_Too late..._

"No. I wasn't too late," he mumbled, shaking his head a little.

_Always going to be too late..._

He shivered, his knees going weak as his hands shook again and he stumbled to the table, hauling out a chair and dropping into it gracelessly. The hunter flinched away from the sights playing out in his head, _his brother's pale face, listlessly watching him change the bandages covering the bite on his shoulder the night before, streaks of dark red reaching across his chest from the infection...green eyes bloodshot and shattering with exhaustion, burning coldly from the deep, dark hollows around them as he shrugged off Sam's offer of help and stumbled to the sink, gagging, the overturned soup dripping slowly over the edge of the table._

"Fuck," Sam whispered savagely, head in his hands, wishing he knew how to reach his brother.

"Watch your language."

The mild chastisement made him jump, knees knocking hard on the bottom of the table. Bobby grinned at him tiredly, scruffy hair sticking out wildly as he shuffled over to the stove and retrieved the steaming kettle.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."

"Son, if the racket you were making didn't wake me up, I need to get a new job. Here."

Sam took the mug Bobby handed him, watched the older man dully as he reached into the back of the cupboard and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, adding a healthy slug to both mugs. They both took a belt of the liquor-laced coffee, grimacing a little as it burned down their throats then Bobby sat opposite him.

"Sam, this has gotta stop."

Sam looked down at his hands, curled into a fist around the mug.

"I know. I just don't know how."

"He ain't getting' any better, and he ain't gonna _start_ healin' until you talk to him."

"I _know, _Bobby. But what am I supposed to do? He won't talk to me about it, hell; he won't even say two words to you!"

They fell silent, the air between them, around them fraught. Finally, the younger man whispered again, "I'm losing him, Bobby. He's right there but I'm losing him again."

Awkwardly, the mechanic reached out and gripped his wrist, worn fingers dark with the grease and oil ground into them.

"You find him, Sam. You find where he's hiding inside that thick skull and you drag him back out, however you have to do it."

Sam looked up, tears slipping unchecked down his cheeks as he met Bobby's eyes and nodded.

"I'm scared, Bobby. I don't know what to do."

Even to himself, he sounded like a child begging for reassurance, terrified of what he couldn't understand, couldn't fix, but he saw the fear reflected in the older man's eyes.

"I know, Sam."

He jerked his head again, up and down; the motion too ragged to ever be called a nod and sucked in a long, shuddering breath. He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, taking his cup and the one still sitting on the counter in one hand and walking slowly, reluctantly, made his way back up through the house to the bedroom that had been his and Dean's as long as he could remember.

Pausing outside the slightly open door, he listened to his brother's steady, even breathing. Closing his eyes, hearing the more distant noises of Bobby moving around downstairs, he could almost believe nothing was wrong, that he was just heading in to wake up a hung-over Dean, as he had done so many times in the past.

But nothing was the way it used to be.

Even before he'd woken, alone in an empty motel room, at the beginning of this whole nightmare, everything had been screwed up. Their father's death, his own and Dean's deal, the long, terrible downward spiral they'd fallen into over his brother's last year, false cheer and desperate bravado doing nothing to hide the terror he'd seen every morning, every night in Dean's eyes as yet another day slipped painfully by.

Then it was over, a minute of screams and blood that was burned into his dreams for four months, alone again, somehow so much worse the second time around than it had been when he'd been through it once before, after the Trickster. He was lost, and he hadn't even known it until he stood in the motel room in Pontiac and felt his brother's shaking hands grip him tight.

Biting his lip, Sam pushed through the door, setting both cups down on the small cabinet between the beds with a soft _thunk. _He lowered himself stiffly onto his mattress, kept his eyes on his hands, twisting together as he heard his brother hiss in pain, struggling to sit up. After five nights, he knew better than to offer help and just sat in the dark, waiting quietly.

Finally, he heard Dean sigh in pleasure as he swallowed the coffee and looked up, his heart shrinking as he saw the pain creasing his brother's eyes, the light sheen of sweat beading his brow, freckles dark against the older man's pallor.

"Dean, this has to stop," he murmured uncertainly, unable to keep the sympathy out of his voice. His brother frowned into his cup, clutched awkwardly in one hand, the other arm propping him up to drink.

"Did Bobby put any of that whiskey in mine?"

Sam blinked, gritted his teeth at the blatant attempt to change the direction of the conversation he'd only just started.

"No. And he won't, not unless you want to end up in the hospital?"

Dean scoffed, trying to hide the wince as his ribs, only just starting to knit together were jarred by the motion.

"Dude, a shot of whiskey never put anyone in the damn hospital."

"On its own, no," Sam agreed patiently, though the older man could hear the effort it took. "But with the meds and the fact that you're still so weak you can barely stand, it'd be more likely to put you in the morgue."

The hunter pulled back a little, shocked by the biting anger cutting through his brother's words.

"Okay, okay. Jesus, man, take it easy."

"No, Dean. I've been taking it easy for days, and I won't do it anymore. I won't watch you kill yourself trying to deal with everything on your own."

Dean looked away, wished he could find the energy to roll away from his brother again. It was so much easier to hide the storm twisting him up when the younger man couldn't see him struggle to keep the tears from falling.

"You're not alone, Dean. Let me help, please."

Faintly, through the scream that wouldn't stop echoing in his head, he heard Bobby downstairs, tried to summon up the dim flare of anger.

"You two been talking about this?"

From the corner of his eye he watched his brother jerk back at the bitter sting in his words, forced himself to continue.

"Been having a nice little mother's meeting down there about me, huh? You an' bobby telling each other you gotta get me to... to 'open up?' To do the whole damn _caring and sharing _thing? Huh?"

"Dean, come on. We're worried, man. You're not sleeping, you're barely eating at all and when you do, you can't keep anything down. This is killing you."

"Looked in the mirror lately? 'Cause you ain't sleepin' any more than me and if you lose any more weight you'll fucking disappear."

"Dean - "

"No, Sam-m - " he stuttered, voice giving out on the name as he flinched away from the feel of long hair brushing his jaw, a head turning into him, seeking warmth in the dark. He felt the coffee turn sour in his stomach, the rising nausea washed away by the jolt of heat flashing through his shoulder from the raw bite mark. The scream in his head rose to a crescendo, whiting the world out in a blizzard of black snow across his eyes as he leant forward, gagging on it.

A low voice rumbled above him, too far away for him to hear clearly, the warmth of the touch gripping his arm grounding him, thumb rubbing slow circles on his shoulder driving away the fading echoes until he blinked down at the bowl held beneath his chin. He shut his eyes again, shuddering away from the sight of the regurgitated coffee, leaning into his brother's hand; listening to the younger man murmur something as he twisted away, moved the bowl out of sight.

"Fuck," he breathed, pain grinding through him from his broken ribs, the stitches in his back tight and aching. He tried not to think about his shoulder. The door opened, soft footsteps coming closer and he could feel Bobby determinedly _not _looking at him. If he'd had the energy he would have snarled at them, at the feeling of being made from cut glass, as if he might just shatter if either of them breathed on him the wrong way.

"Here."

Dean opened his eyes to see his brother's hand, flat on the air, two pills sitting innocently in the middle of his palm. He shook his head.

"Dean, take the damn pills."

"No, Sa... no."

He couldn't, as much as he wanted to, as much as he craved the chemical relief he knew they'd bring. He hurt, so badly, inside and out and he could feel it dragging him under, back into the cold and the dark, but the nightmares swamped him, broke him, his blood-shot stare in the mirror afterwards a little emptier every time.

"Just rest, please Dean. No dreams, I promise."

He snorted painfully.

"What are you, the freaking Sandman?"

Sam jiggled his hand, the pills bouncing gently.

"I promise," the younger man whispered again.

"You can't, man. You can't promise that."

He fought back the thickness in his voice, the fear, tried to push down the burning in his throat but his shoulders hitched and he swayed, leant back into his brother's touch, the scream in his head singing through his nerves, the sickening sensation of bone shattering against his hand.

"I can't do it again, Sam."

He didn't even know he'd said it, eyes fixed, blind, to the pills.

"I can't kill you again."

"You won't," Sam soothed, feeling his heart break as Dean leant into him, still whispering vaguely. "I promise."

His brother nodded, just once and Sam tipped the pills into his mouth, holding the glass Bobby had silently given him to Dean's lips as the older man took a slow sip. He watched as his brother blinked slowly, rolled his head onto Sam's shoulder, green eyes fluttering closed as he sighed.

He waited for an hour, until his legs were numb, his back cramping with the effort of holding himself still as his brother slept quietly against him. Then he carefully eased Dean back to the bed, shuffling up against the headboard so that his brother's head rested against his hip, his hand softly gripping Dean's shoulder, feeling the heat radiate from his brother's fevered skin, numb to the tears sliding down his own cheeks.


	3. Only For A Moment, And The Moment's Gone

_Same old song,_

_just a drop of water in an endless sea._

_All we do,_

_crumbles to the ground though we refuse to see._

_**~~HoV~~**_

**November 12th, 2008**

_"You don't know what I did!"_

He couldn't help but take a step back as Dean turned on him, snarling, raw fury hitting Sam like a punch to the stomach. He gasped, taken aback by the suddenness of his brother's rage, too used to weeks of Dean turning away from him. A shiver crept down his spine as the older man took a long stride towards him, his stomach twisting as he realised he was scared of his brother, gut-wrenchingly, agonisingly terrified of the stranger glaring into his face.

"You have no clue what happened_,_" the older man growled, hands curled into loose fists and trembling at his side. "Don't tell me to talk to you, because you have no idea what happened in that goddamn cellar!."

"If you won't tell me, how am I supposed to know?!"

He felt the tremor shiver through him, wondered how the hell he'd managed to keep it from his voice as he forced himself to hold his ground. He felt as if a chasm stood between them, a mile wide, reaching down a thousand more. He didn't know how to reach across it now anymore than he had as he stood shoulder to shoulder with his brother on the jetty in Concrete, Washington and watched Dean look away, as if meeting his eyes was too much to bear.

And the worst thing was that Sam knew how that felt.

There was too much time between them, too much distance four months of the things they'd seen and the things they'd done, and as he stood and listened to the water slapping at the wood beneath their feet, he heard the truth in his brother's voice. _...there aren't words, there's no forgetting, no making it better... _

"How am I supposed to help you carry all of this when you won't let me, Dean?"

This time, his voice shook on his brother's name but he stood his ground, stared Dean down until it was his brother who flinched, eyes flickering down to the empty, worn carpet between them.

"You're not."

Dean's words ghosted from his lips.

"You're not, Sam. So just leave it the hell alone."

It was cold, utterly final and Sam could have punched his brother for it, except that he saw the hurt flash bright in Dean's eyes as he turned away again, fast enough to stumble, one hand reaching out to the wall for support.

He watched as Dean slouched into the wall, shoulder's slumped, head hanging low. Sweat darkened his brother's back, plastered his t-shirt against his skin and Sam could see the ridges of the older man's ribs, could see the regular bumps of the stitches tracing their way from his brother's shoulder to the small of his back.

"No."

He saw Dean's shoulders tighten, the hand at his side clenching as far as the bandages would let it.

"I won't leave you alone, Dean."

"Dammit, man..."

Sam ignored the whisper, tried to pretend he'd never heard the plea in it.

"Not until you let me help."

Dean shook his head, still hanging down and Sam retraced the step he'd taken moments earlier, lifting one hand to the back of his brother's neck.

"Tell me. You don't have to deal with this alone. Tell me what happened. Tell me what you did to try and survive - "

He blinked up at his brother in wide-eyed surprise, his backside aching from its sudden introduction to the floor as he tried to work out how he'd suddenly ended up sprawled there. Head ringing, he reached up to massage his jaw, feeling the deep bruise already forming as he tried to shake the cobwebs out of his head.

"Dean, what the - ?"

"_You._ _Don't. Know._ So just don't. Don't ever try and fucking justify it."

Sam sat there, stunned, watching his brother stalk out of the room, fury riding his shoulders. He stared at the empty doorway, jumped as he heard the front door slam and bunched his fist, slammed it into the floor at his side.

"Sam? What's going on?"

Bobby skidded to a halt in the doorway and Sam suddenly found he couldn't meet the grizzled hunter's eye.

"I screwed it up," he muttered, bitterly. "I tried to get him to talk and he took off."

"So don't just sit there, boy. Get after him!"

Sam rubbed at his jaw again, finally offering a dry, rueful smirk at the mechanic.

"I think I might give him ten minutes head start."

Bobby stared at him, finally sighed heavily.

"I'll get you some ice, ya damned idjit."

"Thanks."

The younger man shuffled back across the floor, blinking away the dizziness as the floor tilted away underneath him. He put his back to the closest bed, tipped his head back against the edge of the mattress and scowled at the ceiling. Downstairs, the freezer door opened, slammed shut and he reached up, rubbed at his eyes, trying to work out how they'd gone from one nightmare to the next without any time to catch their breath in between.

He snatched the ice pack from the air without opening his eyes, winced a little as he pressed it against the bruise. The mattress shifted against him as Bobby sat on it, muttering.

"Freakin' glass jaw."

He would have smiled, but his face hurt too much.

They sat in silence, both men lost in thought, the house slowly shifting, settling around them.

"He'll be out in the Firebird."

"Yeah," Sam mumbled, pushing himself to his feet. Bobby's hand gripped his elbow as he wobbled. "He's still got one hell of left hook."

The mechanic chuckled, gave his arm a gentle shove.

"Go talk to the idjit. Take the ice with you, for his hand."

Sam nodded and walked quietly out of the house. Stepping off the porch, he turned without hesitation, weaving his way around the piles of old, rusting cars, making his way to the farthest corner of the yard. He paused as he came out between two wrecks and saw the old Pontiac, sitting in a small clearing, the moonlight glittering from its roof.

Closing his eyes, he remembered the time, years ago, when he and Dean had first found the car, the sun heating the metal until it was too hot to touch. He'd watched as his brother, suddenly silent, circled the relic, eyes somehow sad in the summer sun. It became their place, where they went when life seemed to crush them down, when it knocked them back one time too many. He'd spent a lot of time curled up in the back seat in the final year before Stanford, knew Dean retreated to it's dusty refuge after more than one hunt gone bad.

Staring at the once sleek, clean lines of the car, Sam sighed; eyeing the shadow slouched moodily in the front seat. He walked across the empty ground between them, tossed the ice pack in through the missing window then clambered into his place in the backseat.

The same old smell of rotting leather and rust bit at the back of his throat as he settled into it. On the front seat, Dean didn't move, gazing out through the cracked windshield, the ice pack sitting unnoticed, ignored in his lap.

"You want to take another swing?"

Dean flinched and Sam cursed himself, catching the flicker of guilt cross his brother's face in the mirror.

"Use the damn ice, man."

Silently, the hunter reached down, picked the pack up as if it were made of lead, pressing his hand into it.

"Talk to me, Dean," Sam murmured, pleading, heard his own voice in his head; _I'm losing him, Bobby. He's right there but I'm losing him again. _It felt as if they were dangling over a cliff edge and he was the only thing stopping his brother going over, falling straight back into the pit but his grip was slipping, inch by inch, every nightmare pulling them a little further apart. Waking up earlier, ripped out of his own dreams by the sound of his brother's hoarse cries, had been the final straw. Exhausted, terrified, he'd finally dug his heels in and pushed right back at the older man as Dean tried to shove him away.

Insects buzzed outside as he waited, their hum loud against the silence between the brothers.

"After you went to Stanford, Dad took off."

Dean voice was soft, low, somehow brittle, struggling to carry over the short distance between them.

"He went on a hunt, I think. Still don't really know. When he came back, it was like nothing had changed. Except you weren't there."

Fleetingly, he looked up, met his brother's eyes in the mirror then turned back to his fingers, the ice slowly melting around them.

"We just carried on. He'd found reports of a shape shifter down in Montana so we headed there. Only, it went sideways. The whole damn hunt was screwed from start to finish. The 'shifter was a kid, just a kid, maybe fifteen years old? She didn't even know what was happening to her, been thrown out of home when she was six, lived on the streets. She couldn't control it, kept shifting at random, the pain must have driven her crazy long before we got there. When we found her... she cried, man. She just cried."

He could feel Sam watching him, the weight of his brother's eyes almost enough to hide the feel of her thin, broken body in his arms.

"Afterwards, we came back here. She'd put Dad down pretty hard, he had a nasty concussion and a dozen stitches in his head, so we crashed here for a while. I almost called you."

Sam gasped behind him and he flinched, gulping around the hard lump lodged in his raw, aching throat, forcing the words out, knowing that if he stopped now he'd never finish.

"I sat out here one night and I almost called you, just to hear you bitch at me."

He shook his head, eyes still fixed on his hands, wishing he could forget the feel of bone cracking beneath them.

"You should have."

Sam's brow creased in a guilty frown he didn't need to see.

"I couldn't."

Dean looked up, met his brother's eyes again in the mirror, trying to find a way to explain it, the feeling of the world slipping away beneath him, trickling out of his grasp as he'd sat, uncertain in the dark, fingers trembling, punching numbers into his phone from memory. It hadn't stopped until he'd snapped the phone shut without completing the call and threw it out through the missing window. The same feeling of losing his grip, sliding back, _falling, _that dogged his heels every day since he'd woken up in a pine box and clawed his way out.

_Black dog on my trail. _

He sucked in air, felt his aching ribs groan as the action stretched them too far but he held it, held on to it as the cold nestled at the base of his spine drowned out the fire, the burn in the scars he only remembered.

"I can't."

Sam stared back at him, eyes wide in the dark, the wasteland beyond the yard lit silver by the moonlight behind him. Dean felt it pull at him, the empty space that could swallow him, hide him but he kept his gaze on his brother's as Sam nodded slowly.

"Okay then."

"That's it?"

The younger man grinned quickly, crookedly at him.

"I'll wait, man."

Dean blinked slowly.

"You'll wait?"

"Yeah. When you're ready, talk to me. I'll wait."

The older man stared at his brother in the mirror, feeling the pull of the emptiness ease a little as Sam just smiled at him and shrugged.

"You ready to come inside now? Or you want to sit out here in this heap of junk freezing our asses off a little longer?"

"Hey! She's a classic, Sammy!"

The name slipped from his lips before he could stop it, and his breath caught, waiting for the flash of memory to hit him again. It never came and he sank back into the seat as Sam laughed in the background, muttering something about _'...freakin' unhealthy relationship...' _

Dean lifted his hands, skimmed them over the steering wheel before him, hanging at a steep angle. The dried leather flaked under his fingers, tumbling away into the footwell and the hunter watched them fall, traces of times long gone disappearing into the dark. He wondered why it had to be so hard to let the memories fade, shivering as he felt a chill breeze brush his cheek, a dead boy's cry echoing in his head with the screams that broke against him for so long...

_He died because I forgot. Never again. I won't let anyone suffer for me again. _

The hand that appeared in his vision made him jump.

He looked up, saw Sam leaning in the open door, arm outstretched.

"Come on, man. Before I get freaking frostbite."

He took his brother's hand, grunting softly as he climbed out of the old car, pausing to pat the battered, weathered roof as they walked tiredly away, the gulf between them seeming just a little less impassable.


	4. Chapter 4

**What's So Wrong With What You Thought Was True? (The title won't fit...)**

_~~*~~_

_This is it,_

_and it fits,_

_and it feels like this is good enough for me._

_Could it be,_

_that the grass is always green?_

_**~~HoC~~**_

**Seibert, Colorado**

**November 29th 2008**

"You gotta be kidding me."

Sam flicked a glance across the car, not bothering to hide his grin as he looked back at the map held loosely in his hands.

"No, no joke."

"Seriously? Who names their town after a damn cartoon's catchphrase?"

"I think the town was probably here first, Dean."

The older man snorted derisively.

"Still freakin' stupid."

They drove on a few miles, Sam glancing up now and then from the map, taking in the fields stretching away on either side of the road. They'd hardly changed for the last three hours but for once, he couldn't care less about the monotony of the landscape.

"Enough with the damn grinning over there."

He didn't look up, just grinned harder as his brother muttered on the other side of the car. They were back where they belonged and for the first time since he'd woken up in an empty motel room a month before, the world seemed the right way up again.

"Jeez, Sammy, do I need to freakin' exorcise you?"

Sam laughed quietly, turned his attention back to the map, his notes about the hunt scattered across it on his lap. It felt good to be hunting again, felt right, even if he'd made sure it was nothing too serious. He knew neither of them was fully fit, the dark circles brushed beneath both their eyes ample evidence of the nightmares that still plagued one or both of them most nights.

Darting another look at his brother, Sam bit his lip as he saw Dean's fingers brush lightly over his shoulder, the older man's knuckles still bandaged to support the slowly healing breaks. He knew the damage went much deeper, the scars on his brother's back and shoulder twisted and painful in more ways than one.

"Sam."

He blinked, met Dean's green eyes, seeing the worry and irritation roughly plastered over the guilt there.

"I'm fine, Sam. Really."

The younger man forced a smile and looked away again, watching the fields blur into one another. He scowled briefly, couldn't keep the annoyance up and laughed out loud as his brother twisted the radio up another ear-splitting decibel, muttering "Andale, andale!" as he floored the pedal and the Impala leapt forward.

_**~~HoC~~**_

**Arriba, Colorado**

He steered the big car into the narrow space with a quick, deft touch, his feet sure on the pedals, eyes flitting between the mirrors and the cracked lines painted on either side of the slot but his movements were automatic, as instinctive as breathing and just as thoughtless. As he twisted the key in the ignition and listened to the echo of the engine growl away across the parking lot, Dean blinked, eyelids scraping across gritty, sore eyes. He yawned cavernously, crossed his wrists along the top of the wheel and dropped his aching head onto the pillow of his arms, the scar on his back twinging as it pulled too tight.

"Dean?"

He grunted in reply, not really interested in talking.

"You okay?"

"Hmm."

"We've probably got time for a coffee before the diners close."

"Oh god, yes."

Hidden behind his elbow he winced at the rough edge in his voice and fought down yet another yawn, feeling the car shift and settle beneath him. He barely heard his brother murmur a quick goodbye, struggling to cope with the sudden vertigo as his weary mind tried hard to insist he was still travelling. In the privacy of the empty car he shook his head slowly, rocking it across his wrists, muttering to himself.

"'M getting' too old for this."

He drifted for a while; let his mind wander freely for once. The knitting bones in his chest and hands itched with a dull ache, the scars on his back and shoulder burning with a sharper pain. Between the various hurts and the nightmares, he didn't think he'd had a full nights sleep since the dead men had come for him in the bar, and he was beyond exhausted.

He'd pushed Sam for this hunt, practically begging his brother to find them something, anything to take him away from the salvage yard and the memories, old and new that dragged at him there. He needed to be somewhere new, somewhere were nothing reminded him of wide hazel eyes trusting him, turning feral as the lights went out. Somewhere where the past didn't blur into more recent history, into the present.

His fingers rubbed absently under his jacket at the mark on his shoulder, feeling the thick, ropey scar through the layers of t-shirt and flannel. He shivered, the dull ice that had lurked at the base of his spine for weeks creeping out through his veins.

"Here."

It was the smell of the brew as much as the voice beside him that startled Dean from an exhausted doze. He blinked, staring down at the floorboard and his knees, almost jumping out of his skin as a hand brushed his shoulder a split second before another set of long fingers drifted into his view, curled around a steaming cup. He winced away from the reflection that stared back at him, hollow-eyed from the coffee in his brother's hand and leant back in his seat, slouching down far enough to let his head roll loosely onto the top of the seat back.

The heat of the cup reached into his fingers as he took it from Sam, rested it on his thigh for a moment, feeling the seat dip underneath him as his brother leant against it, next to his door. Rolling his head over, he watched the younger man through the window, taking in the slumped shoulders, the yawn he couldn't swallow down or drown in his own cup.

"They got any rooms?" he called softly, frowning as Sam tensed up, standing straighter.

"Yeah. I booked us in, on the second floor though. All they had. Three nights should be enough. I figure we can get some sleep then start on the research in the morning."

Dean scowled harder.

"Yes sir," he muttered, angry at his brother and himself and not quite knowing why, except that he felt like a child again, eight years old and only good for following orders.

"Dean?"

"Nothin'. Let's just get in and crash."

He pushed up out of the seat, hot coffee slopping over the rim of the cup as he staggered, vision greying out for a moment.

"Dammit!"

He shook his hand, the bandages soaking up the scalding liquid, the rest of the coffee running across the ground, spattering his jeans up to the knee. As his sight cleared, he felt his brother's hand, wrapped tight around his bicep.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine, Sam!"

He pulled away from his brother's grasp angrily, wincing as the sharp motion pulled the scar on his back tight again but didn't stop, striding to the trunk and wrenching it open. Dean snatched his duffle, shouldering past his brother as Sam stood next to him, still quietly calling his name. He ignored the irritation snapping through his brother's voice, his boots ringing loudly from metal as he climbed the steps to the long balcony circling the dull motel building, trying to ignore the ice ripping through his chest with every breath he took.

"Dean, will you just stop?!"

He crashed to a halt at the top of the stairs, blinking in the late sunlight as it set, glaring into his eyes.

"Which room?"

"Dean - "

_"Which room?!"_

The key smacked into his back in answer but he didn't move, didn't stoop to pick it up from the floor. He couldn't. Between the cold stealing his breath, burning through his lungs and the tired fury shredding what little control he had left, he knew he would end up in a heap on the floor and he'd had enough of waiting for his brother to come and pick up the pieces.

He heard footsteps behind him, felt the landing reverberate as Sam hurried up the steps.

"For god's sake, Dean!"

His jaw ached fiercely, sharp pain shooting up into his head as he stared down the landing, the doors stretching away from him all the same monotonous green. Sam huffed angrily behind him, jostled his legs as he bent to grab the fallen key.

"We're right here."

Dean wanted to snarl right back at his brother but Sam wasn't waiting, pushing past him to jam the key into the door at the top of the steps and stomping through it. His anger suddenly turned small and cold, shrivelled up into a heavy weight in his gut as he watched his brother drop the two bags he carried carelessly to the floor and lift his hand, pinching the bridge of his nose.

The older man took a step forward, an apology he didn't know how to say on his lips. Sam turned to him, smiled wanly and shrugged.

_I'll wait._

The soft, calm acceptance flickered through the tall man's hazel eyes, and the guilt eating at him turned to shame.

Dean walked quietly into the room, trying to smile up at his brother. He dropped the bag on the closest bed, stared at it as he realised that for the first time in a month, Sam hadn't taken it, hadn't put himself between his brother and the door.

"Hey," Sam called him. He looked up, saw the younger man jerk his head towards the bathroom door.

"You want the shower?"

Dean paused. Showering meant changing the bandages on his hands, meant _Sam _changing them, _Sam _covering the still-raw scar on his back and every time his baby brother saw that long twist of shiny, knotted tissue he turned distant, dark eyes glittering with a feral edge to them that chilled Dean to the bone.

Sometimes, he wondered if it would matter half as much if he still carried all the other scars, all the badges he'd been bizarrely proud of right up until the night he died. Maybe if his skin was still battered, still a torn patchwork of memories, the ragged slash alongside his spine wouldn't matter at all, to either of them.

Maybe.

"No. I'm good. You go ahead."

"Sure?"

His teeth clenched for an instant of white-hot, exhausted rage, the brittle, child-like feeling snapping through his veins again but he forced it away, turned carefully and dropped onto the bed to pull his boots from his aching feet.

"Yeah. I'm just gonna crash, see what's on the cable."

"Okay."

He waited until he heard the shower start running before he eased his t-shirt off, wincing as pain rippled through the scars. Quickly, casting his eyes at the bathroom door, he pulled a jar from his bag, smearing the ointment into the raised tissue on his shoulder and stretching as far up his back as he could as he heard the shower cut off. The salve Bobby silently had pressed into his hands soothed the sullen burn, the pungent smell of the herbs tart and fresh on the air as he pulled a fresh t-shirt from his bag and edged into it, wriggling out of his jeans and lying down on the bed with a sigh as the bathroom door opened.

Sam paused in the doorway, hair dripping down his bare back, watching his brother roll uncomfortably onto his side. He sniffed quietly, smiling as he caught the scent of the ointment and wandered to his own bed. Already wearing his sweat pants, he dumped his dishevelled clothes into his duffle, still open beside the frame, and sank heavily onto the mattress. He listened to his brother's breath catch as Dean surfed through the channels, watched the older man twist on the other bed and finally Sam huffed under his breath.

He shuffled around in the bed, towing his pillow to the foot and settling on his stomach, arms folded beneath the pillow, chin resting on top. He felt his brother watch him, could almost hear the sound of his teeth chewing at his lip before Dean sighed and wriggled down to copy his pose.

"What're we watching?"

"Horror of Dracula."

He glanced over at his brother, one eyebrow quirked and rolled his eyes as he saw the delighted grin on the older man's face, lit by the bright, flickering glow of the screen. With a soft chuckle, he turned back to the television, settling himself comfortably as a caped Dracula chased a wide-eyed heroine through dusty corridors.

As the vampire wailed and dissolved into dust motes, glittering in the sunlight streaming through the heavy curtains, finally fading to black as the screen went dark, the two hunters slept. The film ended, replaced only by static, a low hush of white noise that washed over them and drowned out the low whispers of their nightmares.

_**~~HoC~~**_

**December 1st, 2008**

"You sure about this Sam?"

"Yes, Dean, I'm sure."

"It's a freaking parking garage. Who the hell haunts a parking garage?"

Sam rolled his eyes, grateful for the shadows that hid his face.

"Anyone murdered and buried underneath one, apparently. Ow!" he yelped, as his brother's elbow connected painfully with his ribs.

"Quit rolling your eyes at me, stretch. I was just sayin'. It's kinda lame, haunting a parking garage."

He stopped, stared at his brother in the dark.

"It's where his bones are buried, Dean. He doesn't exactly have a lot of choice."

The older man's grin flashed in the gloom as Dean slipped past him and Sam had to hold his hand down by his side, clenched into a fist as his fingers itched to reach up and pull his brother back behind him again. He hadn't missed the way Dean had paused when they'd walked into the motel room, honestly hadn't noticed until then that he'd walked straight past the bed closest to the door, leaving it for his brother. It was habit, one he suddenly realised he missed, bitterly, since the day he'd carried his brother's body, hollow-eyed and lifeless, to the bed farthest from the door in Starbird Corner.

He fell in behind Dean, shotgun held loosely in his hand, metal cool against his skin. The empty garage, unfinished after a spate of fatal accidents, rang softly with the sound of their boots, echoing back from half-built walls as they slipped between wires dangling from the ceiling like futuristic Spanish moss.

The skin on the back of his neck prickled, unease crawling beneath his skin. He hated dealing with poltergeists. His fingers itched with the residue of the powders and oils in the leather pouches in his pockets, his memory flickering back to the image of his mother, barely remembered, smiling sadly at him.

Sam shook it off, waited for the loud thuds of Dean's boots crashing through the weathered, half-finished concrete wall to fade before he shoved the first gris gris bag into the hole. His brother leant against the wall beside him as he crouched, working the leather as far into the hollow interior of the pillar as he could, half his attention on his work, the rest fixed firmly to his brother. By the time he straightened, Dean's breathing had almost slowed to normal, and Sam kept silent, choking down his worry with an effort as they circled the garage.

The temperature dropped steadily, the dust on the floor kicked up by their boots drifting silently back down to settle behind them as they crept through the shadows. Dean fought the urge to cough on it, the ache in his ribs almost as unwelcome as the inevitable worried look from his brother. They found their way to the second corner and he scanned the wall, searching for a weak spot in the concrete, somewhere he could open up a hole with the minimum of effort.

There was nothing. This side of the garage was almost completed, the concrete smoothed and sealed ready for painting. He shrugged, turned and jogged back to the stairwell halfway between the corners of the structure. The builders had used it as a store before work was halted, and he rummaged quickly through the bags and boxes until his fingers closed around a narrow, cold shaft. Hefting the crowbar he headed back to his brother, flipping it up to rest against his shoulder, trying not to flinch as the icy metal rested against the side of his throat.

Sam rolled his eyes again as the hunter grinned and wound up, cocking the bar back behind him like a Red Sox batter going for a home run on the last game of the series. Dean felt the younger man take a step back behind him and swung, the crash of iron against the concrete deafening in the enclosed space. The bar jarred his hands, sending harsh vibrations up his arms and he pulled back, resettled his grip, swung again, trying to ignore the phantom touch of the sun on the back of his neck, the sound of shattered glass crunching under his feet.

The touch of the iron sang through his palms again and again, the old, faded scar above his eye suddenly itching, burning as concrete tumbled free. His arms ached, muscles burning and he heard metal smashing against metal, crumpling, tearing until the crowbar finally twisted in his hands again, clattering to the ground. He stood there, chest heaving, breath clouding thick in front of his face as he stared at the hole he'd smashed through the wall.

"Dean?"

"Just throw the damn bag in the hole already," he growled, throat tight in the cold air, ice lining it with jagged shards of long-frozen tears. He didn't look at his brother, just turned and started walking along the wall as Sam stared after him.

Distantly, as he walked, he heard his brother sigh and the low scuffling sounds as Sam worked the bag into the hole he'd made. It felt as though that hole went straight through the world, dragging him back until the rough edges were metal instead of concrete, buckled and twisted, the jagged claws of the fear inside cutting at his heart as he stood and watched the space where his brother walked away.

He shivered, felt the concrete scrape his palms as the screams took him to his knees, the dull grey suddenly blood-soaked in his eyes as he smelled fire, the stench of his own blood burning and felt the metal buried in his flesh. Gagging, he reached up to clutch wildly at the hook tearing him apart, felt scar tissue thick and cold under his fingers. He spun blindly, lashing out at the shadows that whispered to him, his own thoughts when he could find enough of himself left intact to form them.

_This is what he did, what he became...sins...For you. All for you. ... the father...And you threw it away, followed him down to the pit... sins of... We've been waiting, so long, for you, to taste him in your blood... sins of the father..._

'_No!'_

He blinked, stared at the sweat, blasting tiny craters in the dust under him as it dripped from his hair, from the tip of his nose, his jaw. The echoes died away in his head, the silence of the garage too heavy around him.

"Fuck, no," he whispered roughly, shaking uncontrollably as he sank back onto his haunches, leaning against the wall beside him. He tipped his head back, sucking in halting gulps of the cold, dusty air, the concrete gritty against the back of his neck as he stared up at the narrow slit of sky visible between the ceiling and the wall behind his back.

Stars slipped in and out of the clouds, the moon a faint haze, the cold, cold light a welcome balm after the heat of the vision, still burnt across his eyes, blood- and fire-toned afterimages he didn't want to make sense of.

"Hey, you okay?"

He looked up at the stars; saw the quick puffs of his brother's breath as Sam panted up to where he sat against the wall.

_Too many secrets. They're gonna fill me up. Fill up the empty spaces with shadows._

Dean fought down another shiver at the strange thought. It didn't sound like him.

"Yeah. Waitin' for you."

Sam huffed, a thicker cloud of vapour shrouding the sky for a moment as he listened to his brother lean against the wall beside him.

"Yeah, right."

The older man rolled his head a little; until he could see his brother's face, upside down, a deep crease etched between his brows.

_When did he get worry lines? I don't remember. Sometime around his fifth birthday, I guess. Kid's a born worrier._

He sighed quietly, watched his breath fade to nothing before he spoke again.

"We gonna can this poltergeist or not?"

Sam laughed, and reached down, pulling him to his feet.

"Yeah. Two bags left, and we're done."

"Just for the record, we're never taking on a poltergeist in a damn parking garage again. Too many storeys. I'm gonna be smelling oil of freakin' abramelin for a damn month."

"Preachin' to the choir, dude."

Dean grinned widely, two sets of footsteps birthing one set of echoes as they strode along the edge of the parking lot. He didn't need to make a hole at the next corner, casting a quick, wary glance around the dusty, shadowy space as Sam picked the lock on the maintenance cover set into the wall.

It squeaked quietly and the hunter tensed, feeling something crawl along his nerves, a chill reaching out from the base of his spine.

"Hurry it up, Sammy," he muttered, fingers shifting around the stock of his shotgun. He felt his brother's eyes rest on him for a moment, then the taller man stood lithely, a looming presence at his shoulder. "I think Casper's back."

"One bag left."

"Yeah. Straight across the middle. Go," Dean ordered, felt his blood sing as his brother nodded acceptance of the quiet command and slipped past him, jogging quickly across the empty space of the garage. He followed, close enough to watch the younger man, far enough back to have a good field of fire, his finger curling and flexing around the trigger. He saw the far walls, sliding together in front of them, meeting in the final corner and he picked up his pace, boots pounding against the floor, drawing closer to his brother as every hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

"He's here."

He didn't answer his brother, knew it wasn't a question and flicked a glance over one shoulder as they slowed near the pillar rearing up from the junction of the walls. Sam stood back and Dean ran straight at the wall, slamming his boot into the crumbling structure. It cracked and he reared back, then a grip of ice cold iron clamped on his shoulder, digging into the nerves hard enough to make his arm tingle and go numb, the shotgun slipping through limp fingers, clattering noisily to the ground at his feet.

For an instant, a split second between his heartbeats, he was back in the cellar, the stink of blood and decay heavy on his tongue as a dead man's cold hand gripped his shoulder, forced his gaze onto the boy he'd killed. He flinched, started to suck in a breath, _not Sam _echoing in his ears, then he was dragged back, off his feet, flailing out at the grip he couldn't see, couldn't touch, feeling the spirit's laughter curl under his skin.

Dean's heels thudded against the floor as he kicked, dust hanging unnaturally on the air, choking him, hiding his last glimpse of his brother as Sam reached after him, eyes wide. The shiny twist of tender, barely healed scar tissue on his back sang as he was slammed down to the ground, his head bouncing from the concrete hard enough to make him see stars and he lay there winded, stunned, desperately trying to draw gritty air into empty lungs.

Panic crashed into him as he felt something brush his throat, thin and cold, pulling tight in the split moment of time it took his eyes to widen. His hands came up as he twisted, fighting to pull air into his lungs, mouthing breathless profanities as his body was hauled up by the noose until his boots kicked at nothing but empty space below him. He gagged, choked, vision already dimming, tunnelling to a grey walled view of the dust-laden air enclosing him. Dimly, he felt fingernails rip away as he clawed frantically at the wires strangling him, tearing the tender skin on his neck, fresh blood streaking the bandages on his knuckles as his struggles slowed.

The cold swept up around him, the grey, dusty air turning black as the dark swallowed him, screams crashing over him so loud he thought his eardrums were going to burst. He thought he must have screamed too, as he felt hot metal sear his empty palm, the handle that wasn't there, that _couldn't be there _turning in his grip, but he didn't have the breath to do it.

Then the screams and the burns faded to nothing. The chill nestling at the base of his spine uncurled as his hands fell limply to his side, his feet twitching spasmodically, his head falling forward until his chin brushed his chest and oblivious to the world, he slipped silently into nothing.


	5. When I Sleep I'm Never Found

_Black dog a-followin' me,_

_but my jailor won't ever let me go._

_Black birds chatter in the trees,_

_what they're saying baby I don't know._

_**~~HoC~~**_

All he could do was watch in horror as his brother was dragged back, dust shrouding his frantic struggles in moments. Sam leapt forward, found his back slamming into the pillar behind him instead, pain exploding along his spine, leaving him winded, gasping and blind on the floor. He lay there, silently begging his stunned body to work, the faint ticking of his watch thunderous in his ear as it marked off the seconds passing him by. Slowly, he pulled his arm underneath his chest, splaying his hand against the pitted concrete and forcing himself to his knees. He swayed, leant heavily against the pillar, every muscle in his back screaming as he staggered unsteadily to his feet, clutching at the cracks in the wide support.

"Dean!" he croaked, still fighting for breath, peering desperately into the dust hanging thick in the air, surrounding him, choking him. Nothing answered him and he wavered, swiping absently at the blood dripping from his hair, wincing a little as his hand caught the gash on the side of his head. Torn, he stared out at the swirling clouds, down at the bags spilled at his feet.

"Dammit!" he spat at the dust, dropping to his knees, feeling the fine grains stir on a breeze as he scraped together the graveyard dirt and van van oil, bundling them back into the scraps of leather. The wind picked up, the dust stinging as it pelted him and he hunched his shoulders, twisted his back to the poltergeists fury, his mind obsessively counting off the seconds since the spirit had snatched his brother. He scrabbled at the wall beside the pillar, the old concrete crumbling away under his fingers, stubborn enough to rip his nails away and blood soon began to streak the edges of the hole. Sam stuffed the bag in, flinched down against the pillar, hissing as the bruises on his back stretched, the blinding light stunning him for a moment.

He surged to his feet his head throbbing viciously, staggering dizzily through the soft clouds that fell slowly around him.

"Dean!"

Coughing on the grit lining his throat he froze as he saw a darker shadow unveiled as the swirling motes gradually thinned, settling as his heart pounded wildly against his aching ribs.

"No, nonono..."

He stumbled, almost fell, and turned the motion into a clumsy run, barrelling towards the dim shape, not hearing the denial that spilled from his lips. He skidded to a halt, throwing his arms around his brother's legs and heaving up, taking the older man's full weight with a faint grunt of effort. His fingers scrabbled at the hem of Dean's jeans, yanked free the small silver blade from his ever present ankle sheath and he stretched up, tears streaming from his eyes as he sawed desperately at the wires that disappeared into the ceiling.

They parted with a soft twang and his knees turned to water suddenly, taking him down hard, his brother's dead weight -_ god, no, please no - _crushing him into the floor as the knife clattered away. He rolled Dean to his back, tore at the wires around his throat, cutting deep into the soft, vulnerable flesh. He sobbed once as he saw the scratches, eyes darting to the bloody bandages on his brother's hands, yanking hard as he finally managed to slip the tip of his pinkie finger under the wires.

"No, no no no come on, man, not again, you don't get to do this again Dean, damn it you don't, you just don't."

He ripped the noose apart, hurled it away from him and pressed his trembling fingers against his brother's neck, holding his breath he waited.

"No!" he cried as he felt nothing, shoulders slumping for an instant before training took over and he tipped the older man's head back, pinching his nose shut and forcing air into his brother's lungs. He reared up, knotted his fingers into a fist that shook as he slammed it down onto Dean's sternum, again, feeling bruises start to bloom on his hand, stinging as he laced his fingers together and started compressions. Bone shifted under his hands and he gasped out pleas between counting, tears dripping from his cheeks.

"Dammit you stubborn bastard, you don't, you don't get to do this to me again. Breathe! Fucking breathe!" he yelled, voice thick and harsh, cracking on the last word.

Frantic minutes passed, his lungs burned with the effort of breathing for them both, his arms trembling; sweat trickling down his back from the frantic exertion. He couldn't help but slow down, couldn't keep the desperate pace up, his vision greying out behind a wall of sparks as he tipped his head back and screamed wordlessly at the ceiling.

His hands stilled, still wrapped so tightly together his knuckles were white, resting on his brother's chest. His head dropped forward as he panted heavily, choking on the tears burning his throat, blind and numb to everything.

"Don't, please. Not again." he gasped out, broken and lost and his brother answered. Dean's back arched up from the concrete as his eyes flew open, mouth gaping as he sucked in a ragged breath. Sam reared back in shock, almost falling before he caught himself and grabbed at the canvas jacket, pulling Dean up against him, feeling the older man's ribs heaving frantically as he choked. He cradled his brother fiercely against his chest, murmuring reassurance to them both, shaking as he rocked slightly, back and forth.

Slowly, Dean's hand came up, found his wrist and wrapped around it, tight, trembling as the older brother fought to pull air into his lungs.

"Easy man. Easy. I gotcha," Sam whispered, his brother's desperate gasps easing as Dean sagged heavily into his arms. They knelt there in the dust, the echoes slowly fading away into the shadows around them. He held on tight, tremors crawling up his spine as he kept up a breathless stream of meaningless babble, his brother's fingers tightening painfully around his wrist every time he paused for breath.

"I'm right here, I gotcha, it's okay. It's gonna be okay. I'm not letting go. Don't you dare do that to me again, okay?"

"Sam?"

Dean's voice was wrecked, a throaty, rasping whisper that made a shudder creep down Sam's back.

"Yeah. I'm here."

"Y' 'kay?"

Sam laughed once, bitterly, tinged with hysteria.

"No. Not really."

He felt Dean nod once against his chest.

"Me 'either," the older man sighed. "C'n we go now?"

"Hell yeah," Sam murmured, feeling the bruises on his back from his collision with the pillar tightening in the cold garage, his knees aching and cramping, folded against the floor for too long. He levered himself up, pulling his brother with him, steadying Dean as he swayed, and almost pitched forward.

"Whoa, whoa take it easy."

Dean leant into him and he slung one of his brother's arms over his shoulders, throwing his own around the older man's waist, threading his fingers through the belt loops on his jeans. They weaved their way back through the garage, both brothers shivering. Sam listened to Dean's still raspy breathing, darting quick glances at him, wincing every time he caught sight of the livid bruise already forming around his neck. As they neared the door to the stairs Dean stumbled, feet tangling together as a coughing fit doubled him over.

"Crap," Sam muttered, staggering a little under his brother's weight, easing Dean to the floor, helpless to do anymore than rest his hand on the older man's back, hoping the contact would offer some comfort as he fought for air.

Finally, the paroxysms faded and Dean leant back exhausted into the touch on his back, sighing carefully.

"Okay?"

He nodded slowly, eyes tightly closed as he let his head hang low. He heard Sam, shift, never moving his hand as the younger man sat down next to him, their shoulders brushing, so close he felt his brother's breathing hitch a little.

"Sammy?"

For a long moment, there was no answer. When it finally came, Sam's voice was so quiet he had to strain to hear it over the ringing in his ears.

"Don't do that again Dean. Okay? Not ever, not again."

He knew his brother didn't mean the coughing fit. _Third times the charm, _a cold voice whispered in his head and he shivered once.

"I can't lose you again."

Somehow, Dean didn't think he was meant to hear Sam's whisper, wasn't sure the younger man even knew he'd said it aloud. He didn't know how to answer, didn't know how he could lie to his brother again and make the promise Sam wanted, so badly, to hear. He could feel the heat of his brother's hand on his back, the memory of the warmth pulling him up out of the dark swamping him for a moment, burying him in visions that faded before he could understand them, though he couldn't ever forget them. And suddenly, he couldn't bear them anymore, couldn't carry the weight of the things he'd done, alone.

"I killed him."

He felt Sam stiffen beside him, almost pulling away.

"What?"

"The kid. Sa..." he winced, couldn't force the words out past the lump in his throat. He cleared it, gasping a little as pain dragged through his nerves.

"I killed him once," he grated, bizarrely glad that, even to his ears, it didn't sound like his voice. "They'd already started to turn him and he bit me." His hand drifted to the scar on his shoulder, fell away again as the words tumbled from his lips, unstoppable now they'd finally broken free, even if he'd wanted to.

"I kicked him, broke his neck, I think. It's a little fuzzy." He gave a jagged laugh at the understatement. "They cut my back, gave him some of the blood and he..." Dean paused swallowing hard at the memory. "Well, it brought him back. Then they left us, turned the lights out and I could hear him. He was still breathing," he mused.

_Strange, how that's the only thing I can remember clearly. _The sound of the ragged breaths echoed in his head, pulled him back down into the cold dark unfurling up his spine.

_His back ached fiercely, shoulders burning with his weight as he twisted, straining at the ropes around his wrists, the dead boy's breathing harsh and loud. Small fingers grasped his ankle and he gasped in shock, trying to pull away, shuddering as he felt a tongue drag through the blood dripping from his feet. He kicked, tried to feel some sort of satisfaction as he heard the boy fall back but all he knew was the sickening guilt churning with the fear coursing through his veins._

_The boy's touch was cold as it caught at his side, icy fingers digging into his hip and he groaned as teeth nipped at the edges of the jagged wound on his back. He twisted again, managed to break the growing strength of the grip on his side and kick out again, feeling his body swing wildly, and feeling bone break under his feet. Tears choked him, salt acid in the patchwork of cuts and scrapes as they dripped steadily down his chest but he kept on kicking, pulling desperately at the ropes, gagging as the sickening crack of bones shattering rang through the room._

_Then he was falling, a brief instant of weightlessness, of freedom before the ground slammed into him, turned the dark bright with stars as his head smacked hard into the unyielding concrete. Dazed, he groaned, rolled over onto his hands and retched, pushing up on trembling arms. A cold body crashed into him, knocked him down again and they rolled over as he forced a hand up against the boy's throat, his own ragged, gasping breaths the only sound now._.

_**"You know how a revenant is made, Dean? First, the body has to die. Slowly, painfully, so that the spirit lingers for a while. Then the spirit is bound back into the body, but the spell isn't complete yet. Oh no, there's one more thing to make a revenant. He has to feed to be complete, Dean. He has to kill."**_

_Terrified, instinct going into overdrive, his eyes widened, straining to see in the dark as he listened to the old memory and he screamed as he tightened his grip with all the strength he had left. He screamed as he twisted his hand, fast and sharp and the fingers clawing at him stopped, fell loose against the torn skin of his chest, trapped beneath the cold weight of the slight corpse as he hugged it close against him, mumbling through numb lips;_

_"No. God. Nonono, supposed to protect you. Look out for you. Keep you safe. Screwed it up, Sammy, I screwed it up. Let you down again. I'm sorry. God, Sammy, I'm sorry."_

_Thick, icy blood slipped over his skin, trickled down his side, stinging as it mingled with his own and he let go, let the dark and the cold take him away. _

They sat side by side in the empty garage, the confession hanging between them. Dean could hear his brother's soft breathing, smooth, even, controlled with an effort he could feel through the scant inches that separated them. He sniffed, wiped a hand roughly across his cheeks, scrubbing it through his hair as he shivered and pulled his knees up, resting his elbows on them.

"Bobby found his picture."

He held himself still, listened to Sam whisper to the dark.

"Soon as I saw it, I knew. I guess I forgot, what happened back then. But when I saw his picture on the website, I knew. If I'd remembered sooner..."

There was nothing he could say to ease the guilt, bitter in his brother's voice.

"The house hadn't changed. Not really. We went in and they were... it was empty. They left you; I guess they thought he'd kill you. But you were in the cellar and you... it was like you weren't there anymore. We got you out, Bobby called Jack and he, he stitched you up but you were just gone. Empty."

"Sam - "

"Don't, Dean. Just don't, alright? I can't do that again. I can't."

Dean didn't move, didn't speak, barely even breathed as Sam shivered beside him, mirroring his posture, long legs hugged up against his chest. The silence fell between them again, heavy and cold. He coughed again, winced as it tore at his swollen throat, even breathing felt like swallowing white-hot razor blades. He rubbed at the bruise gently with one hand and turned a little to look at his brother from the corner of his eye.

"Did you call me a stubborn bastard?"

Sam laughed reluctantly, smiled a little sadly.

"Yeah. You wouldn't breathe."

"So you insult the dead guy?"

For a moment he thought his brother was going to explode, the blood draining from Sam's face, leaving just two red spots high on his cheeks, barely visible beneath the dust. Then the younger man deflated, laughing again.

"It seemed appropriate at the time. Besides, it worked, didn't it?"

Dean snorted, made a mental note to _not _do that again, his head joining in the vicious throbbing in his throat.

"Bitch," he muttered weakly as Sam stood with a sigh.

The younger man turned, reached down a hand to him and pulled him up gently with a "Jerk." He smiled; leant into his brother again, glad of the shared warmth as they shuffled down through the cold stairwell and out into the street. By the time they reached the Impala, he was shivering violently, barely aware of his brother's worried glances as Sam lowered him into the passenger seat. He huddled against the door, scrunching himself down into his coat, waiting impatiently for the younger man to start the engine and warm the heater up.

Dean tried to ignore the way his teeth were chattering, chills racing through his arms and legs, always coming back to that cold spot unfolding from the base of his spine as he wrapped his arms as tightly as he dared around his aching ribs. He let his eyes slip almost closed as his head throbbed violently, in time with the pounding of his heart, his view of the world reduced to a thin slice of the dashboard and his knees. It shifted from dark to light to dark again, over and over and he swallowed hard, remembering the way the shadows in the cellar in the Litchfield house had swung and twisted around him. Acid burned his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut, forced it down and listened to the sound of his brother beside him, felt the hot air rushing past his face, stirring his hair.

"Dean? How're you doing?"

Sam's voice made him jump, lifting his head and peering through blurry eyes.

"W-w-wher-r-e?" he stuttered, teeth chattering so hard he could barely force it out.

"We're back at the motel. Come on."

Dean suddenly realised Sam was crouched on one knee in the gravel of the parking lot, leaning one shoulder against the open door beside him. He let his brother reach in and pull him out, staggering into the taller man as his knees refused to hold his weight. Sam's hands tightened around his arms, gripping his biceps fiercely.

"Jesus Dean, you're freezing," Sam muttered, breath hot against the hunter's cheek as Dean staggered into his brother's arms.

"B-b-b-be f-f-f-in-n-ne..."

"Whatever."

They stumbled across the short expanse of gravel, and he felt Sam hesitate, lifted his head to see his brother glaring at the stairs that seemed to climb to the heavy clouds. The arm around his waist shifted, gripped tighter and together they started climbing, the metal ringing under their boots. Dean groped for the handrail, trying to help pull himself up the stairs but he snatched his hand back with a gasp - the smooth surface was so cold it burned.

"Dean?"

"'s-s-s 'k-k-kay," he answered the panic fluttering in his name, shut his eyes and concentrated on lifting his feet, one step after another until his brother's hand tensed against his side, silent warning that there were no more steps. Sam propped him up against the wall beside the door to their room, pressing one burning hand against his shoulder as he started to slide down the grimy stucco. Dean let his head droop forward, turned his attention to the heat sinking into his skin, holding onto it as he struggled to stay awake.

_Sam, something's wrong..._

He thought he'd said it aloud but Sam just hoisted him into the room, kicking the door shut behind them as he helped Dean to the bed, quickly stripping away his boots and tucking both quilts around him. He burrowed down into them, the stiff fabric of his jacket heavy and binding as he clenched his jaw against the shivers that wracked his frame, lost in the cold as it drowned him, turned the world to a distant hum that echoed strangely through his head.

Sam watched his brother curl into a ball, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tightly around his chest.

_Something's wrong. This isn't right._

Sam shook his head a little, blinked gritty eyes and strode quickly to the tiny kitchenette on one side of the room. Flicking on the kettle he waited impatiently for it to boil, tapping a tea-spoon irregularly on the worktop. He watched the bed, shaking with the force of his brother's shivering, his stomach twisting anxiously.

The kettle clicked and he poured the boiling water into a mug, stirring in three sachets of sugar and a scant spoonful of coffee granules to counter the sweetness, squinting through the steam, trying not to slop it over the rim. His fingers tingled as he carried the hot mug back to the bed with three long strides.

"Dean, come on. Drink this."

He slipped an arm under his brother's shoulders, easing the older man onto his back and wincing as he felt the chill in his skin. Sam lifted Dean's head, holding the mug to his lips, tipping it gently as his brother gulped at the steaming liquid.

"Easy, man. Easy."

He set the empty mug aside, perching on the edge of the bed as Dean curled up in the blankets again, squirming down inside them until only his hair showed. Slowly, Dean shuffled back until he was pressed against Sam's hip and the younger man swung one leg up, lying it along his brother's back, resting one hand on his shoulder, trying not to shiver himself as the cold transferred through the blankets and his jeans.

And he prayed, for the first time in a long time, since he'd seen his brother torn apart before his eyes.

_Please. Please god, don't make me do this again. Don't take him away again. Please._

He watched the light streaming through the window change, hours passing in a blur of cars rumbling past outside, headlights sweeping across him as he trudged back and forth between the kitchenette and the bed, forcing as many mugs of the hot, sugary drink he could beg, badger and cajole his brother into swallowing, trying not to see the emptiness creeping in around the edges of his eyes.

He downed his own coffee, as strong as he could stomach it, the caffeine wearing off faster and faster even as his hands began to tremble. He sat on the edge of the bed again, Dean pressed against his side and tipped his head back, resting it on top of the headboard, the worn padding doing nothing to protect the back of his neck from the sharp edge as it dug into his skin. Despite the discomfort, despite the chill settling into him, his eyes slid closed, fluttering open one last time as he fought a losing battle to stay awake. His hand, gripping his brother's shoulder tightly, loosened and fell away as he lost the fight and his head rolled loosely along the headboard as he drifted away into the dreamless dark.

The floor brought the world crashing back in on him.

Sam scrambled up to his knees, breathless, reeling as he blinked furiously, trying to clear the sleep from his mind. He shook his head, still ringing from the hard landing, the sound of soft choking taking a long moment to register. He surged to his feet and stared at his brother in horror. Dean was convulsing, arms and legs jerking wildly, spine arched, head thrown back so that his eyes, rolled up until only the whites showed, seemed to stare blindly at Sam as he stood, rooted to the spot.

_Nonononononono..._

He didn't realise he was whispering it aloud until he ran out of breath, sucking air in with a ragged gasp that shook him and he threw himself forward, grabbing frantically at his brother's flailing arms, sitting on top of his legs. He caught Dean's wrists, locked one hand around them and jammed them into the pillows, leaning all of his weight into them as he was almost bucked off the bed.

"Dean!"

His voice was hoarse, terrified as he tried to catch his brother's head, finally managing to clamp his hand across Dean's forehead, feeling the spasms ripping through his body as he panted heavily, listening to his brother choke.

"Fuck!" he yelled, not caring if their neighbours heard, almost hoping they did as his aching muscles began to tremble with the strain of holding his brother down, fighting all the hunter's strength. He knew Dean wasn't fully recovered from the days he'd spent chained and tortured by the revenants, but his brother was still solid muscle and more than capable of overpowering him. His only advantage was leverage, with a greater reach he could pin Dean down before the hunter's struggling body could gain enough momentum to do any real damage.

"Come on," he muttered, not enough air in his burning lungs to manage any more. Sweat trickled down his spine, tickling his ribs as he panted. "Please, Dean."

Slowly, the convulsions eased, faded to violent shivers until he felt his brother suddenly relax completely, eyes fluttering closed. He felt his heart stop, panic singing through his nerves as he frantically jammed shaking fingers against Dean's throat. A sob tore up from his chest as he felt the flutter against his fingertips, the pulse weak and erratic but there. He scrambled off the bed, keeping one hand wrapped in his brother's jacket as he gathered his own coat, stuffing his wallet, phone and keys into his pockets as he shoved his arms into the sleeves.

Then he stooped, slipped his arm under Dean's back and hoisted the older man onto his shoulder in a fireman's carry, staggering a little under his brother's solid weight. He gritted his teeth, snarling with the effort as he stumbled to the door, not bothering to lock it, barely pausing to listen for the quiet click as it swung closed behind him. His breath caught as Dean moaned softly and he felt tension ripple through his brother's abdominal muscles, pressed into his broad shoulder.

"Sorry man. I'm sorry," he murmured, not sure if he should be relieved or more scared as Dean went limp and silent again, head bouncing gently against the scar in the middle of his back as Sam staggered down the stairs. The cold metal of the railing shook as he caught at it, every step on the edge of overbalancing. Gravel crunched under his feet at last and he almost broke into a run over the short distance to the car.

He fumbled with the driver's door, finally yanking it open and carefully easing his brother onto the front seat, sliding in beside him and resting Dean's head gently on his knee. Sam kept one hand twisted in his brother's jacket, needing the reassurance of the contact, feeling panic beginning to wrench at him as the older man started to shiver again and the engine roared. The sky paled with the rapidly approaching dawn as he jammed the pedal to the floor, tyres screeching as they fought for grip on the dew-slick road.

_**~~HoC~~**_

He hurt. Every muscle ached, his limbs heavy, his head sinking into soft pillows. He rolled it with an effort that left him dizzy, cranked open his eyes and stared down at the hot weight crushing his left arm.

Slowly, as his wavering focus steadied, he recognised the familiar sensation, felt the itch of long hair tickling his wrist, the stickiness of salt drying on his skin.

"Sam?" he croaked, wincing as his voice dragged broken glass through his throat. He could have laughed as the younger man bolted upright, hair plastered against one cheek, blinking at him. But he could see the tearstains on Sam's face as he felt the bones in his hand shift in his brother's grip.

"Dean?"

"Y' soun' worse'n me."

"God, Dean."

Dean watched wearily as Sam reached out with his free hand, grabbing a plastic cup from the small table beside the bed, holding the straw poking from the top for him to sip at the cool water. He shivered as he swallowed it, feeling the chill uncurl in his back again and race through his veins.

"What happened?"

He glanced around the room as Sam hesitated, taking in the bland, beige paint peeling from the walls, the ruthlessly scrubbed bland white tiles on the floor, faint rays of sunlight shining through the bland, thin curtains and he sighed. His fingers found the tubes taped to the IV in the crook of his elbow and fiddled restlessly with it as he turned back to his brother, staring down at his hand where it still gripped Dean's tightly.

"Sam?"

Sam jumped a little, looked up at him and paused for a moment longer, dark eyes unreadable.

"What do you remember?"

Dean shrugged, fought down the wince as the dull burn in his muscles flared.

"Not much. The poltergeist grabbed me, tried to lynch me. I... you get it?" he waited for Sam's nod, the younger man's gaze kept sliding away from his. "Good. You got me back to the car." He didn't mention the concrete, cold and hard beneath him, pressed down into it by the weight of their confessions, the echo of ragged breathing fading under the guilt in his brother's voice; '_You were just gone. Empty.' _"That's about it," he finished, trying to catch Sam's wandering eyes.

The younger man sighed, scrubbed a hand over his face.

"You were so cold...no, freezing. It got worse all the way back to the motel. By the time we got there, you could barely stand. Then I..." he trailed off and Dean frowned as he blushed a little. "I fell asleep."

_Oh._

"Sammy, you were tired, okay? Don't worry about it."

"Dean, you started seizing. Knocked me off the bed, I guess. I woke up on the floor, anyway and you were..." This time, Sam's face turned distinctly green, pale beneath the sickly tint to his cheeks and his voice was thick and strained as he continued. "Soon as it ended, I brought you here. Lincoln Community Hospital, in Hugo. That was about eleven hours ago. You've been out ever since."

Whatever Dean had been expecting, it wasn't the savage glint that suddenly shone in his brother's eyes as Sam leant closer, the same harsh, clogged tone in his whisper lightened by anger he was shakily glad wasn't directed at him.

"What the hell's going on, Dean?"

"I don't know Sammy. But we'll figure it out, alright?"

Sam took a deep breath, heated stare glittering and Dean almost shrank back from the imminent explosion, heaving out a sigh of relief instead as the door opened. It caught in his throat and he coughed, trying to clear it, tears springing to his eyes as the razorblades lining his throat twisted savagely. He grabbed at Sam's wrist as his brother held the plastic cup in front of him, barely hearing him mumble anxiously through the roaring in his ears as he tried to catch his breath fighting the panic that threatened to overtake him. The cool water slid over his tongue like ice, calming him, soothing the burning itch enough to let him breathe again and he sank back into the pillows, eyes tight shut, gasping carefully.

He jumped when a hand nudged gently under his jaw, lifting his chin and lightly probing the bruises encircling his throat. Cracking one eye open a fraction, he peered blearily at the doctor leaning over him, a young, olive-dark face glancing down at him.

"Hey there. Good to meet you at last."

"Yeah. Hi," he whispered, even the faint breath of sound making him tense as the itch in his throat re-ignited. Flinching from the questing fingers, he groaned.

"Don't try and talk. I'll get one of the nurses to bring you some ice chips. They should help."

Dean nodded, let his eyes slide shut again and squeezed lightly at Sam's hand as the younger man stood by the bed, a silent, worried presence. Sam squeezed back, fiercely enough to make him wince.

"Sorry."

"Sorry."

He grinned weakly wryly raising an eyebrow as the doctor and his brother both apologised simultaneously.

"'S okay."

"What did I just tell you, Mr. Hammett?"

He shrugged one shoulder in mute apology, felt Sam roll his eyes.

"Well, there's some fairly extensive bruising with associated swelling to his throat." Dean peeked through one eye again to see the young man straighten and address his brother. "It'll take a few days to start to fade, and it'll probably look a lot worse before it gets better, but there shouldn't be any lasting damage. At this point, I'm more worried about the seizures and your brother's temperature."

_Seizures? As in more than one?_

He tried to make his voice work but a shiver crept out from his spine, slipped through his nerves and he let the effort of forcing it down, not letting it show distract him from the voices echoing oddly above him as he drifted away into the dark.

"Can I speak to you outside, Sam? He'll be drowsy for a while yet."

The taller man hesitated, glanced down at his brother, frowning and quiet. The hollow pit below his heart sucked at him as he took in the deep shadows below Dean's eyes, his eyes flicking down to the bruises on the older man's wrists, his own fingerprints joined by strangers', scattered up his brother's arms and down his legs. His muscles still ached wearily from the effort of holding the hunter down through the seizures, the caffeine that had kept him upright through his long vigil at Dean's bedside humming through his nerves.

He let his brother's hand go, setting it gently on the pale blankets at Dean's side and turned, followed the doctor from the room.

"What's going on, doctor?"

"Sam, at this point, I honestly don't know."

He shut his eyes, willed the world to turn back five seconds and change what he'd just heard.

"Dean's symptoms don't match any illness or toxin I can think of. Is there anything, anything at all he might have been exposed to? Any narcotic - "

"He doesn't do drugs!"

"Intentional or otherwise," the doctor continued, raising one stern eyebrow at him as Sam subsided again, shaking his head, forcing himself to look up at the young doctor. Against the white lab coat, the shorter man looked as tired as he was, as worn by the long hours of desperate, fruitless searching for answers.

"Your shift must have finished hours ago."

The doctor smiled and shrugged, ducking his head.

"Well, I couldn't leave Dr. Carmichael with a case as tricky as this."

Sam laughed, wearily, too exhausted to do anything else. The doctor turned to a nurse, bustling past and caught her arm.

"Marie, would you mind getting us coffee?"

She smiled patiently at the two men.

"Of course. White, two sugars, right?"

Sam nodded, turning to sag back against the wall. The doctor joined him, both men silent for a moment. The hunter sighed, dropped his head into his hands, visions of the long, long night playing out in the dark behind his eyes.

_Bodily carrying his brother through the ER doors, calling for help as another seizure took them both down, hands grabbing at them, helping him hold Dean down. He looked up as blunt fingers wrapped carefully under his brother's head, met a pair of clear blue eyes that offered concern and reassurance, suddenly widening into alarm and Sam didn't think, just ducked and caught the wild blow on his shoulder. _

_His arm went numb but his hand flashed up and grabbed his brother's wrist, slipping a little on the sweat that slicked the older man's skin, dragging Dean's arm down and locking it across the other, pinning both with all his strength... sitting in the dark beside the bed, his brother's hand pressed against his head, staring at their joined hands, intertwined fingers, trying to shake off the déjà vu that was all too real... a blow slipping past him, knocking a nurse from her feet with a startled cry, the doctor opposite him cursing furiously, breathlessly as the wild bucking of Dean's body stopped suddenly and he lay utterly, terribly still, the nurse scrambling back to her feet and pushing him aside. _

_He'd staggered back, watched helplessly as they clamped an oxygen mask over his brother's slack face, sliding down the wall as the doctor cursed again and tipped Dean's head back, pulling open his jaw, slipping the tube into his brother's throat with quick, practised motions... huddling in the chair, listening to the clock tick, measuring off the spaces between his brother's pulse, beating sluggishly against his fingertips as he caged Dean's wrist in his hand, trying to drown out the whooshing sound of the respirator with the music he played in his head, his brother's music on endless repeat, echoing inside his skull as he waited and waited..._

"Here."

He looked up, sniffed and wiped self-consciously at his eyes before taking the cup held patiently before him.

"How you holding up?"

"Just peachy," he muttered, an inappropriate laugh bubbling up inside. He squashed it down, hid it in a long gulp of the tepid coffee.

"Sam, what happened to your brother?"

He looked up at the doctor, wariness slipping tight across his shoulders.

"I saw the scar on his back, the bite mark on his shoulder. It's human Sam, you know that, right?"

Sam nodded slowly, didn't say anything as he watched the young doctor.

"And Dean's underweight. Not drastically, but more than he should be. He looks like he normally takes pretty good care of himself."

The hunter wanted to laugh again. _Yeah, if you can call jumping between me and anyone else out there and whatever freakin' creature feature wants to eat us next 'taking care of himself, _he whispered in his head.

"It looks... well, to be honest Sam, it looks like he was tortured. And if I had to guess, I'd say neither of you have slept much for a few weeks."

The doctor didn't look up at him, giving him the space he needed to come to a decision.

"Four weeks. Nearly five."

It was the shorter man's turn to nod slowly, wearily, saying nothing, waiting.

"They took him from a bar. I don't know why, but when we found him h-he..." his chest hitched, the air suddenly turning cold and solid as he tried to drag it into his lungs. "You saw what they did. He was... broken, I guess. Took him two days to come round."

"Nightmares?"

"Yeah." _Both of us._

"And his throat? That's not a month old."

Sam frowned into his coffee, wondering if he was paranoid or if he really did hear an edge of suspicion in the doctor's voice.

"He, uh...he..."

His mind went blank.

"Look, doctor - "

"Tom. Doctor makes me look for grey hairs every morning."

Sam laughed shakily.

"With what we do, we make enemies. We get into nasty situations."

"What do you do, exactly?"

"We're kind of like private investigators. We try and find victims the police can't help, for whatever reason and we do what we can."

Tom turned to him, one brow quirked in something like surprise.

"Last night, we got caught up in a drug deal." Sam's mind churned feverishly, creating and discarding scenarios as his heart thumped away behind his ribs. "We were trying to find a kid who'd run away, got mixed up with the wrong crowd. One of them got a hold of Dean, he wasn't fully recovered from...before, or they'd never have taken him. He wanted to get back to work, to try and forget what had happened. They tried to strangle him."

Lying, believing in the story enough to make it convincing made it almost bearable to say, made it almost possible to see the doctor through the image of his brother hanging limply from the wires in the shadows of the cold, dust laden air.

"Damn near succeeded by the looks of it."

"He wasn't breathing," Sam whispered, surprised to hear the words slip between his own lips. "When I got to him, he wasn't breathing."

It hung there in the silence crowding them from the open door beside him and he shivered, slouching down the wall a little more, wrapping long fingers around the hot cup, trying to pull its warmth into him, as if it could dispel the remembered chill of his brother's skin.

"He's lucky."

"Lucky?"

"You saved his life, Sam. Twice in one night, which is a pretty good record."

"I guess. It never feels like luck."

He felt Tom's eyes on him, weighing him but he couldn't tear his own away from the black stare of his reflection in the coffee.

"Sam, I'm going to order another round of tests, get Dean in for an MRI, a few other things. His temperature's still dropping, and that's making his body shut down. It's possible the convulsions are a result of toxins building up in his blood stream, we might have to put him on dialysis as a temporary measure, but we've got to figure out what's going on." The doctor paused; shaking his head as he idly studied the peeling paintwork. "With the bruising to his throat, I really don't want to have to intubate him again, but it's a real possibility if he has another seizure. I've never seen anything like this before, hell; at this point I'd accept voodoo as a cause!"

The joke fell flat, sharp edged between them as Sam's head snapped up to stare at the doctor, his mind racing.

"Well. The tests will take a while. Why don't you go back to your motel, catch a couple of hours sleep if you can. A shower, maybe?" Tom smiled wryly at him, a hint of apology for the implied insult and Sam nodded absently, thoughts churning through his head at light speed. "I'll call you when we're ready to bring Dean back down to his room."

Sam pushed away from the wall.

"Just gimme a couple of minutes, okay? Let me talk to him." he asked and Tom nodded, reaching out to clap him on the shoulder.

"Sure. We'll figure it out Sam. I promise."

It rang hollow as he slipped out from under the doctor's hand, shutting the door softly, firmly behind him. He crossed to the bed, brushing his hand across his brother's cold brow, his heart clenching hard inside his ribs as Dean shivered and turned into the touch.

"Hey," he called quietly. "You awake?"

"No."

Sam laughed but it was hollow against the hoarse, ragged whisper of his brother's drowsy denial.

"They're taking you for some tests, Dean. I'm gonna head back to the motel, see if I can find anything."

"'k."

"Take it easy, okay?"

"Yeah."

He turned, footsteps heavy as he crossed the room again.

"Sammy..."

Sam paused, looking back over his shoulder, his fingers clutching at the door handle.

"Be careful, 'k?"

"Yeah. You too, Dean."

He opened it, stepping back into the too-bright corridor, feeling lost and out of time with the world as the nurses bustled past him and he trudged slowly through the hospital, fingers locked tight around the car keys in his pocket as he left his brother behind.


	6. We're Just A Wish Away

_**A thousand lamps**_

_**Won't lift the dark,**_

_**The rest of our lives,**_

_**Might have already passed.**_

_**~~HoC~~**_

He lay quietly, trying not to shiver as the cold worked its way through him. The room was quiet, empty, too big without his brother there and he shut his eyes again, finally turning his head away from the view of the door Sam had walked through, god knows how many minutes before.

Dean sighed through his teeth, clamping his jaw shut as they tried to chatter. The

chill wasn't helping the dull ache that spread itself through every inch of him, the occasional shudder that crept through his control making his exhausted, strained muscles burn and he sank down heavily into the pillows, unable to even hold his head up.

Faintly, he could hear the sounds of people moving outside his room, life passing by as he lay there in the dim light, staring up at the ceiling. In the quiet, muted gloom , he couldn't stop the incessant worry that settled into him, biting sharp at his nerves, making him nervous and twitchy.

He was scared.

The hunter sneered at himself, fighting down waves of panic, clenching his hands into fists with all the strength he could scrape up. But in the empty room, his own breathing was loud and ragged, rasping painfully through his raw, abused throat and his eyes fluttered closed. One hand wandered slowly to the scar on his shoulder, his fingers dancing lightly over the jagged bite mark as he shivered freely. Wires tangled, pulled free, shrieking alarms unnoticed as he rolled onto his side, towards the world rushing noisily by on the other side of the door, curling up under the weight of memory crushing him down.

The door opened, a bright fan of light spilling across his eyes and he flinched, ducked his head further down into his arms, shaking with the fear and cold that slipped long, claws through him and dragged him under, back to the cellar as he whispered painfully through the tears soaking his skin.

"Sammy..."

Warm hands plucked at his arms, a soft voice tutting over head. The alarms cut off, the silence ringing too loud in his head and he shuddered harder, desperately digging his fingers into his arms as his blood slowed in his veins. He barely noticed a hand tugging at the collar of his t-shirt, cold wires ice on his skin as the nurse reattached them. The blanket she settled over him suffocated him, but he burrowed down, feeling the weight press him into the bed as the door closed and the room was silent and empty again.

_**~~HoC~~**_

The tyres screeched as Sam slammed on the brakes, the heavy car rocking on her suspension as he screeched to a halt and threw himself out of the door. His fingers twitched, adrenaline mixing sickeningly with the caffeine still buzzing through his system, crashing against the utter weariness and making him stumble as he dashed around the car to the door of the motel room. Gravel kicked up from his feet, skittered from the tread of his boots against the metal steps and he banged into the door, barely managing to stop short of knocking it down. His hands shook with fatigue and frustration as he fumbled with the key, the thin metal slipping through his fingers and jangling loudly against his boot.

"Crap," he muttered, chewing at his lip as he snatched it up again, jammed it forcefully into the keyhole and twisted it savagely. The lock ground open, every millisecond too long as he shouldered through the door, slamming it behind him and yanking his laptop from its case. He dumped it on the table, flipped the catch with speed born of desperation and stabbed at the power button, muttering distractedly.

"Come on; come on come on come on."

Sam almost bounced on his toes, fingers twitching into fists, flattening out again as he tugged them through his unruly hair, snarling when they caught on a tangle. Grit scratched at his scalp, at his skin and he shook his head irritably as he caught himself longing for a shower.

"Focus, dammit."

He dropped heavily into a chair as the screen cleared, blinked up the desktop and he stared for a moment at the picture, knuckles turning white.

Dean laughed up at him, leaning carelessly against the worn steps of a weathered porch, sunlight glinting from the hubcaps on the wall of Bobby's house behind him.

Sam's vision swam, black spots twisting across his vision as he sucked in a gulp of air, suddenly realising he'd stopped breathing. He dragged his eyes away, remembering the day he'd taken the picture, years ago now. Before Stanford, before their father's death. Before his, and Dean's.

John had been on his way back to the mechanic's after a hunt, the brother's meeting him there once school had finished. Dean's hair was longer, carelessly spiked into a soft scruff on his head, a smudge of oil on one cheek and his eyes were young, clear, free of the weight that darkened them. For the first time, Sam suddenly realised it was loneliness that shadowed his brother's gaze now, that it had never been there before he left for college and he looked back at the picture, stomach churning.

"Not again," he whispered, praying, promising. "I won't lose you again."

Reluctantly, he pulled up a browser, started searching through the long list of websites stored within.

Intent on the screen, he didn't notice the light fading until his phone shrilled, vibrating against his leg. Swearing under his breath, he kept scanning through the ancient text on the screen as he dug it out.

"Yeah?"

"Sam? It's Tom, Dr. Sanson."

"Dean? Is he okay?"

"He's doing fine now, Sam. We just got him settled again after the tests, but I had to sedate him earlier."

"What! Why?"

The young doctor's voice was rough, weary, heavy with a compassionate sadness that terrified Sam.

"He had another seizure, a rough one, while they were doing the MRI. They couldn't get him out and he seemed to be more aware than before."

The hunter sagged in his chair, lifting one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose as images of the confined; glaring tunnel of the machine swam into his mind. He'd had an MRI once, after a bad concussion left the doctors worried, and it had been unnerving enough then. Picturing his brother, disoriented, hurting, waking to find himself trapped inside the cramped space made his stomach twist, a faint echo of Dean's voice, a fortnight after he'd stood in the doorway of Sam's motel room in Pontiac, wearing a weak, broken smile that looked all wrong.

_I woke up, and it was so dark Sammy. I thought maybe this was hell. Shut in there, in the dark forever. _

He dropped the phone, left the chair tumbling to the floor behind him as he bolted for the bathroom, crashing to his knees in front of the toilet and heaving into it. He gasped for breath, sucking air in as he flopped back onto the tiled floor, collapsing against the wall, neck bent sharply, uncomfortably.

"Jesus..." he mumbled, scrubbing at his lips. Slowly, he forced himself to his knees, reaching up to grab hold of the sink and dragging his weary, aching body up. He splashed cold water on his face, rinsed his mouth and tried not to look at the mirror above the sink.

It took several minutes for him to remember his phone, discarded in the middle of the call and he turned so fast the world swayed as it caught up. He snatched the phone up and jammed it back against his ear.

"Tom? Dr. Sanson?"

"Sam? Are you okay?"

The hunter sighed shakily.

"Yeah. Sorry. I'm okay."

"You had me worried, kiddo."

The familiar nickname, distorted as the doctor yawned down the phone, stung the hunter, like a swarm of ants crawling over the skin above his heart and he had to bite down on his tongue to stop an angry shout bursting from his lips.

"Sorry. Is Dean okay? Did he... did you have to intubate?"

"No. We got lucky this time, and he's fine but he's pretty much out of it. Chances are he won't wake up until late tomorrow morning. It sounds like you could use some real rest, Sam. Stay at the motel. Get some sleep. If there's any change, I promise I'll call you."

Sam hesitated, feeling the emptiness of the room echo hollowly around him. Sighing, he flexed his hand, feeling his brother's desperate grip night after night as Dean fought his way out of the nightmares. His gaze wandered back to the laptop and stopped at the bottom of the text he'd been reading, the brief moment of hope when he'd thought maybe, just maybe he'd found the answer finally withering away completely.

He was torn, caught between the need to find out what was happening to his brother and the loneliness aching in his bones, the room just too quiet without Dean there, filling it with sound and life.

He let go a heavy breath and muttered into the phone, "Yeah. I guess you're right. Thanks, Tom. For staying and everything."

"It's fine, Sam. I could use the overtime," the doctor joked, the weariness in his tone belying the forced cheer. "I'll talk to Dr. Carmichael, let her know what's been going on, then I'll see you when I get back on, around midnight. Okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks again."

The low hum of the disconnected call answered him. Sam wilted, dropped to sit on the end of the closest bed, wincing as he realised it was Dean's. He raised his hand shakily, sucking in deep breaths as he massaged the bridge of his nose again, a sullen, throbbing headache firing up behind his eyes. The cold light of the laptop blinked and flickered, the machine powering down as it waited to be used, and in the near dark the young hunter felt tears slide unchecked down his cheeks.

He watched them fall, splashing to the carpet, a brief moment of incandescence before they turned black against the greenish fibres. His jaw tightened painfully, a low buzz building in his ears, louder, until it deafened him and he surged to his feet, slammed a fist into the wall, the flimsy plasterboard cracking under his knuckles.

Sam didn't stay to watch the flakes of paint fall, just snatched his jacket and bolted from the room, claustrophobia crawling under his skin, twisting through the loneliness as he slammed his way into the Impala. Sudden despair crushed him, the terrifying certainty that he'd get to the hospital and find another empty room, his brother gone, leaving him alone again.

He wasn't sure what he would have done if he'd met a police car on the frantic race back to hospital. He couldn't stop, charging straight through red lights, across junctions, foot flat to the floor as the engine screamed. The split second it took him to park, throw the car into neutral and yank the key from the ignition was too long, visions blinding him until he shoved the door open, threw himself out and bulled through them.

The tall hunter ignored the alarmed cries that rose around him as he ran through the corridors, long legs carrying him quickly through the now quiet hospital. He turned the last corner and skidded to a halt, grabbing at the corner of the wall beside him as he stared, terrifed, at the closed door, the window set into it glowing faintly with a dim, weak light. His knees buckled as he tried to drag air into his burning lungs, his chest heaving as sweat and tears dripped from his jaw.

"Sir! You can't be here - "

He twisted savagely away from the hand that plucked at his arm, breaking into a stumbling jog down the corridor, feeling his heart break a little more with every step, utterly convinced he'd see nothing but an empty bed, made with military neatness.

The nurse following him grunted softly as he staggered back into her, completely thrown by the sight of his brother, pale face turned towards the door, surrounded by tubes and wires but _there _where he'd expected to find nothing.

"Please, Sam, isn't it? Visiting hours are over, I'm sorry. You'll have to come back in the morning."

Sam turned to her, gaping, mind reeling as he struggled to throw off the lingering certainty that he was too late.

"Sam?"

The shorter woman blurred, suddenly shooting up in height until she loomed over him. Dimly, he heard someone cursing quietly, felt someone pulling at him and swayed back, hands coming up to bat away the insects buzzing around his head. He closed his eyes, shivered, wondering why his knees throbbed. Then he inhaled something that stung, made his eyes water and he gasped, jerking his head back.

Sam opened his eyes, stared up at the worried face peering down at him and blinked.

"Sam? Can you hear me?"

"Wha'?"

"You almost fainted. Come on, sit back. Take it easy..."

With the soft command the nurse eased him back against the wall, resting her hand on his shoulder.

"Fainted?" he murmured, struggling to make sense of the vague impressions still flitting through his mind. "Y' got tall. And there were... things. Buzzing. Round my head."

She laughed, squeezed gently.

"You got short, Sam. You got real short, real quick..." She smiled down at him gently. "It's a while since I've seen anyone go down that fast. You gave me a shock."

"'M sorry."

"Don't be. I've had worse," she muttered dryly and he grinned back shyly, suddenly feeling like a ten year old as he shook his head a little, huffing out a breath as his mind cleared. "You feeling okay now, honey?"

Sam nodded, pushing himself up the wall to his feet. The nurse followed him and he scanned her now familiar face, remembered her holding tight to his arm as they lifted Dean away from him in the ER, towing him in her wake as they followed the gurney with the squeaking wheel. _Marie, _the tag on her lapel proclaimed, and he suddenly realised she was the nurse who'd kept them plied with coffee all through the long night and day. She scowled a little at him, irritation darkening her eyes below her auburn hair, glinting a little in the lights.

"When did you last get any rest, Sam? Or eat anything?"

"Uh..." he frowned as he realised he couldn't remember; found his eyes sliding past her to the door beyond. She tutted, frowning.

"Go on, go see him. The canteen should still have something vaguely resembling food. I'll bring you something up."

She pushed him towards the door but he hesitated, one hand flat against it, terrified to shatter the illusion painted on the glass.

"Sam. He'll be okay. Go on in, go see him, talk to him."

"Tom said he's sedated..." Even Sam knew he was stalling. Marie gently pushed him again.

"He is, but he'll know you're there. He'll be groggy, maybe a bit confused but he'll know. Go talk to him."

The soft repetition got through to him and he looked up meeting her eyes. He nodded in gratitude as he sucked in a deep, shuddering breath and pushed his way through the door. The quiet beeping of the monitors marking off his brother's life enveloped him, echoed gently in his head as he walked to the bed, reaching out to skim his fingers through Dean's hair.

Sam sighed, forcing himself to look at his brother, at the bruises around his eyes, at the freckles standing out too harshly against his pale skin. The monitors cast a cold glow over the bed.

"God, Dean," he murmured, leaning hip shot against the edge of the bed. Dean stirred, eyes fluttering and Sam let the hand still brushing through dishevelled hair drop to his brother's shoulder, squeezing gently.

"Dean? You there?

"S'm?"

He had to pause, swallow hard at the ragged whisper, his own voice strained and harsh when he could finally force words out.

"Yeah, it's me, I'm here. How you doing?"

"Wh'r...?"

"In the hospital, Dean. You remember?"

Dean rolled his head weakly across the pillow eyelids flickering weakly and Sam watched, heart breaking as he frowned.

"No. Da...?"

_Dad. Where's Dad. Oh god, Dean._

"He... he's back at the motel, Dean. Resting."

His voice cracked on the lie and he clapped his free hand over his mouth as a sob tried to claw loose.

"Good. You...'k, S'm?"

"Yeah. I'm fine, Dean. I'm just fine."

"Good."

Sam reached out, pulled the chair beside the bed closer and sank into it as Dean shuffled slowly, weakly to roll over, flinching a little as he did. He saw his brother's eyes finally open, barely, blinking lazily up at him and he forced a smile onto his worry lined face.

"Hey. It's good to see you, Dean"

Dean's lips twitched as his gaze drifted in and out of focus.

"Hey, S'm."

"They gave you the good stuff, I guess," Sam whispered, watching his brother smile slowly, goofily.

"Yeah."

Ice shattered inside him as he saw Dean shiver and frown again, eyes fluttering for a moment.

"You cold?"

His brother nodded and Sam squeezed his shoulder quickly, standing and turning to the door. It opened before he could take a single step towards it and Marie slipped in, a cup steaming in her hand.

"Sam? Everything okay?"

The hunter blinked as she walked towards him, holding out the cup.

"Yeah, you were right, he's awake. He's feeling cold. Uh... I wondered if he could get another blanket."

She tutted softly and slipped past him, resting her hand against his brother's brow, frowning as she stared intently at the monitors beside the bed.

"I'll go fetch you one now. Drink that up, the canteen are sending up some sandwiches, okay?"

Sam nodded, taking a cautious sip from the cup, smiling as he tasted the chocolate.

"Even that lot can't mess up hot chocolate. Good?"

"Dean used to make it for us, when we were kids," he mumbled, letting the steam tickle his face, clouding the world in a soft haze for a moment. "Dad was away late most nights." The lie slipped easily from his tongue, half-truths pulling him back into the past.

"When we'd get home from school in the fall, when it was cold, he'd always make us hot chocolate. Best I ever had." He didn't mention the time, years later, when they'd gone back to another tiny, drab motel room after visiting John in hospital, and Dean had made hot chocolate again, nor the way it had tasted like ash when he'd made it himself in Stanford, one bitterly cold, lonely night a month after he'd left.

He looked up at Marie through the steam, meeting her gaze squarely, shocked by the tears in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, honey."

Her apology, quiet and sincere, scared him but he just nodded slowly, too weary, too worn to do more.

"I'll get you that blanket."

He dropped back into the chair as she walked away, locking the fingers of one hand around the cup, finding his brother's cold and still with the other. Sam gazed at the older man, feeling time slip away from him in the quiet room, no more able to let go of the chill fingers wrapped through his than he was able to fly. Dean looked asleep, eyes closed, long lashes brushing the heavy shadows under his eyes, bruises formed as blood vessels burst from the force of the convulsions. But as Sam closed his eyes against the rising tears, rubbing his thumb rhythmically over the back of his brother's hand, he felt the fingers beneath his own squeeze his hand tightly.

"What do I do, Dean?"

The whisper tumbled into the stillness, almost hidden by the soft beeping of the machines around them.

"I don't know what to do, how to fix this. If I can't figure it out, I'm going to lose you again and I can't do that, Dean, I can't. Not again. Last year, you told me to just let you go. I couldn't then and I can't now, but I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do to stop it."

He fell silent as the door opened behind him, sparing Marie a quick almost apologetic glance as she handed him a neatly folded blanket, patted him on the shoulder and left again without saying a word. Sam flicked the thick wool open, spread it over Dean, tucking it carefully around the tightly curled mound, biting his lip as his brother frowned and shifted beneath it.

"I don't know what to do," he repeated hitching in a wordless sigh as Dean's fingers tightened around his, cold and desperate. Sam stood, dropped the guard on the side of the bed and perched on the edge, propping one foot on the chair he'd just left. He slipped his arm around his brother's shoulders, pulling Dean against his side, the older man turning into him, shivering helplessly both brothers needing the contact. Sam closed his eyes, felt the tears burn hot in his throat as he held on and slipped into the dark.

He never saw the door open, never heard Marie call his name softly. She stopped as she caught sight of the brothers, huddled together on the bed, all their assurance and strength gone. Her breath caught, stilled in her throat as she watched them sleep fitfully, both men pale and bruised. The nurse sighed, hating the fluttering uncertainty she felt every time she saw the doctors talking in hushed voices, anxious glances searching for anyone who might overhear. She knew instinctively that they were losing one young man right before her eyes, something inside the nurse telling her the other would follow soon after.

The sandwiches in her hands suddenly seemed pathetic, so totally inadequate, a banal intrusion of normality into a world that was crashing down around the two men she was watching. Silently, she dropped them onto the cabinet beside the door and crossed to the bed, easing the blanket out from beneath Sam and flicking it up over his side.

She froze as knowing green eyes flickered open and found her, fire lighting briefly in them through the haze. Marie smiled weakly, sadly, surprised to find a long forgotten prayer running through her head as she returned his stare, her heart aching as she saw the resignation deep inside it, hurt she couldn't stand laid bare.

"I'm sorry," she breathed, feeling useless as his lips twitched in the shadow of a killer smile and went lax again, his eyes fluttering closed as he turned his head back into his brother's arm.

"I'm so sorry."

She left the whisper echoing around them and fled the dark, silent room, suddenly cold despite the heat pumping from the vents, empty around the broken men.

_**~~HoC~~**_

It wouldn't have been quite so bad if he could just get warm. The pain, aching deep in abused, exhausted muscles he could live with. The weakness that stole every once of strength from his limbs, left him stranded on the bed, barely able to wrap his arms around himself, he could pretend was just comfortable, morning-after lethargy. Even the sluggish pace of his thoughts as the drugs pumped through his blood wasn't too bad, cushioning him from the worst of the fear and loneliness as he slipped between the endless dark and the empty room.

But the cold, the ever-present cold trickled through his veins, pushed out from the base of his spine with every failing beat of his heart. It dragged him under, dragged him back and he simply couldn't fight it, couldn't push it away. He felt the ropes wear away the skin on his wrists again, new skin, old scars, the jarring dichotomy shaking him until he didn't know _when_ he was anymore.

His eyes fluttered open, and with strength he didn't know he still had, he forced his head to lift, look down at his hands, wanted to feel relief at the unbroken skin beneath the bruises on his arms but all he felt was the cold. Sam, pulled tight against a lean man's chest, staring back at him replaced the present, the love and trust in his brother's eyes turning cold and dark and feral and he again he heard the sickening sound of bone cracking, shattering, felt the ache in his throat and knew he'd screamed, surely he'd screamed but the room was silent, the beeping in his ears undisturbed in it's faltering rhythm.

He rolled over, too slowly to avoid the empty, sullen gaze of the dead boy, crumpled in the corner of the room, memories fluttering in the edges of his perception, too many, from too many times. _I tried, Dad, I __**tried**__ but I couldn't stop them!... dead men circling him, burying him as the light and sound of the bar faded into the church bells chiming in his head...seeking absolution for his failure, only finding pity in his father's eyes..._Heat clamped around his shoulder, dragged his stare away from the corpse and the past and he saw the boy's dark eyes watching him, warm and compassionate. Dean shivered, heard his brother murmur something and felt the faintest shimmer of heat inside him; relief flooding him, it was Sammy, _his _Sammy, all grown up with none of that desperate, broken trust in his eyes anymore.

"Hey, S'm."

It hurt, saw-toothed flames ripping at his throat but the ragged smirk that crossed his brother's face was worth it.

"They gave you the good stuff, I guess,"

Sam smiled again, sadly, eyes too bright and all he wanted to do was wipe the tears away but he couldn't lift his hands, his arms made of lead and iron. So he smiled back, trying to remember what it felt like when all he had to do was grin at his brother to make everything all right.

"Yeah."

The effort drained him, he heard something snap in his head and the cold surged up around him. He shuddered as ice flooded his veins, tried to concentrate on the heat of his brother's hand resting tight on his shoulder.

"You cold?"

He nodded, panic stealing his breath as Sam's hand squeezed once before lifting away from him. Locked inside his head, inside a body he couldn't move all he could do was wait, watch the world fade away from him, his last view his brother's back as Sam spoke to someone, the low baritone shimmering through him, a light, feminine answer tossing him loose again.

_Sam? Sammy, come back. I can't find you..._

He could feel the ache in his throat, the itch that wouldn't go away and knew he hadn't spoken aloud when it didn't change. He would have welcomed the burn at that point as he fell farther away from the world, pulled out by an undertow he was powerless against.

_Sammy, please._

He would have wept, if he could, as he felt the distant heat on his hand, vaguely aware of the muscles in his hand aching again. He could hear his brother talking, clung to the sound, let it buoy him up for a while as he drifted alone in the dark, the cold everywhere now as it tried to pull him under one last time. He knew he wouldn't come up again when it did.

The heat on his hand shifted, spread along his side and he found, somewhere, the strength to turn into it, the slow beat of a heartbeat fighting back the undertow, tears scalding his face, too hot to be his own. Breath stirred his hair, brushed across his cheek, hitching for a while. _Sammy, don't. Please? I'm sorry. _Then it slowed, evened out, the arm around his shoulders relaxing and he sank into it, trying to smile as the heat seeped into him a little, shivering instead as the cold fought it back, his nerves and his blood the battleground.

Something moved them, let a draught slip down under his skin like a knife, like a dead man's whisper against his cheek and he forced his eyes open. Dark hair, tumbling around a worried stare, a fine, delicate hand absently smoothing the blanket over his brother's hip and he blinked, the sorrow in her gaze reaching down into him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, so quiet he couldn't hear it over the sound of his blood in his ears but the apology was unmistakeable in the smile that broke his heart.

_I can't fight this. No-one can._

He forced a smile onto his own lips, felt it shake and watched tears slide down her cheeks.

_I don't want to have to fight anymore. But I can't stop. Not until I know Sammy's safe. Until there's someone to take care of him, make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. Please._

He couldn't hold on anymore, the cold catching hold of him again tearing him away casting him adrift and he gave in to it, turned his head into his brother's arm, seeking warmth and the beat of his heart as he slipped silently away into the dark.


	7. Driving The Nail

_No, don't leave me to die here_

_Help me survive here alone,_

_Don't surrender_

**December 1st, 2008**

_**~~HoC~~**_

Sam sat in the car, staring blankly through the windshield. He didn't notice the sun, creeping slowly, fearfully above the horizon, didn't notice the gradually increasing traffic passing on the road behind him. All he saw was his brother, swathed in blankets, shivering uncontrollably as he stole one last glance through the window set into the door. Walking away from the room had been hard, his throat locking tight as he listened to his footsteps echo from the walls, loud in the empty corridors. He'd hadn't heard his heart beat so loudly in his head since it had thundered over his brother's screams as the hell hounds tore him apart but at least then he could fight, could strain against the pressure crushing him into the wall and scream his own voice away.

Now, there was nothing but the terrible sensation of helplessness, the task ahead of him too great for the time he had. He'd spoken with Tom again, the young doctor's admission tearing them both apart.

_"I'm sorry, Sam. It just doesn't make sense. I've tried everything I can think of, and none of it's working. I don't know why. We'll make him as comfortable as we can."_

_"When?" Cold, empty, feeling the life slip away through his fingers._

_"A day at most. There's nothing else to try. I don't know what else we can do. I'm so sorry."_

_No. there has to be something. There has to._

Sam sniffed and climbed out of the car, shutting the door carefully. He yawned as he shuffled up the stairs to the door of the motel room, blinking wearily and squinting at the handle as he stabbed the key at its hole. It took him three tries to get it in place and he stumbled as he shouldered his way through the door, sagging back against it, dropping his head into his shaking hands.

He didn't lift it as he slid slowly down the door, his jacket and shirts bunching up under his arms and around his ribs until his backside thumped softly into the floor. Pulling his knees up, he rested his elbows on them, crossed his arms and let his head roll on his wrists, his watch digging gently into his cheek.

He closed his eyes, pulled one hand out from under his cheek and wrapped his arm around his head, fisting his hand in his hair. In the dark, he listened to the echo of the voice he couldn't shut off, hadn't been able to drown beneath the deafening music in the car.

_"I killed him. The kid. Sa..." he heard the ragged breath his brother sucked in, as if even thinking the name hurt. Sam held himself still, forced himself to wait and listen. "I killed him once. They'd already started to turn him and he bit me." The younger man almost flinched as he saw the blood, thick around a dead boy's lips but his brother kept going as if he couldn't stop. "I kicked him, broke his neck, I think. It's a little fuzzy." He wanted to vomit, wanted to scream at the shattered little laugh his brother gave. "They cut my back," he saw glass, glittering in the blood that spilled over his fingers, felt his hands itch again, "...gave him some of the blood and he came back. Then they left us, turned the lights out and I could hear him. He was still breathing. He just kept coming. I fought him, Sammy, I kicked him back over and over but he never stopped. I could hear him. I couldn't see him but I could hear every bone I broke. He didn't scream. He should have screamed. They all should have."_

_He stared at the garage, unseeing as he tried not to give any sign he'd heard the last four words that had sliced deep into him, knowing Dean had never meant to utter them. He felt his heart turn cold in his chest as his brother fell silent. For the longest time, the loudest sound was the dust settling slowly around them, over them. He almost didn't hear his brother's whisper, so quiet, so lost in the dark._

_"He forgot to breathe, after a while. He just... stopped."_

_He felt his brother's eyes on him, couldn't look up back, couldn't see past the image of the dead boy's face, his own face, bloody and pale in the cellar._

_"Then the rope snapped."_

_He flinched as his brother turned away, spoke in that cold, dispassionate voice he used to use when he was reporting to John at the end of a hunt._

_"I killed him again. He came at me, pinned me down and I snapped his neck again. Don't know why it stopped him that time. Maybe..."_

_Dean trailed off, didn't finish what he'd been about to say and Sam wondered if he even knew what it was. He felt as if he was the revenant, half-turned, only breathing from force of habit, struggling to remember the chores of life. He sat there, pulled air ripe with sweat and dust and old, tainted blood into his lungs, pushed it out, trying to find a way to make the world understandable again._

Sam opened his eyes, blinked once, staring blankly at his wrist in close-up in front of his aching eyes.

"It can't be that simple," he whispered, frowning to the empty room. "It can't."

He pushed himself to his knees, swayed back, barely catching himself before he fell to the carpet again. Half-crouched, head hanging low he fought off the wave of nausea and dizziness that swamped him, finally dragging himself over the floor to the nearest chair. His head swam as he pulled himself unsteadily into it, blearily watching the triplicate laptops boot up and flicker patiently at him.

The exhausted man squeezed his eyes shut again, opened them as wide as he could, tapping slowly at the keys, one finger at a time. Pages opened, changed, his hands starting to move faster as adrenaline began to twist through him. He waited impatiently for a file to download, drumming his fingers on the warm casing of the computer, finally pushing away, staring blindly at the wall, unable to stand the image his mind was only too happy to create. The dead boy - _Sammy - _crouched over his brother as the hunter held him off, gathered him close when it was done, blood smearing Dean's torn, raw skin.

"It can't be," he murmured again, hardly daring to believe the hope fluttering inside. He paced to the kitchenette, back to the table five times before he gave it up and flicked the coffee maker on, the rich, dark smell of the brew filling the room.

He'd almost finished the first cup by the time the laptop chimed softly; the mug teetering on the edge of the worktop as he abandoned it, crashing into the chair so hard it teetered precariously on two legs for a moment. Sam didn't notice; too busy staring at the screen, jaw tight and getting tighter.

"No. No, it can't be."

He barely realised as his hands reached for his jacket, slung carelessly on the back of the chair, dug in the pocket and pulled out his phone. His fingers trembled as he dialled, pressed it hard against his ear.

_"Yeah?"_

"Bobby?"

_"Sam? What is it? What's wrong?"_

"Do you know the spell used to make revenants, Bobby?"

Distantly, he wondered if he was possessed, the sensation of someone else playing puppet master with his body, with his voice eerily, hideously familiar.

_"What?! What the hell's going on, Sam?"_

"Please, Bobby. It's important."

_"Yeah. At least, I think I've got a copy somewhere. Hold on..."_

"I need you to check something for me, Bobby." He listened to the distant sound of books thumping to the floor, of his friend's footsteps a hundred miles away. "It's a binding spell, right? In the blood of the victim."

_"Yeah, that's right. It's Haitian, older than voudoun, but similar. The victim is killed, pretty nastily too, so the spirit hangs around after death. Then whoever's trying to turn them calls on one of the ghede, Papa Ghede, usually; spirits who got kind of amalgamated with Baron Samedi and the voudoun gods of the dead. This spell asks the Loa to give a piece of himself - blood, which is mixed with the victims' once they're dead. It binds the dead spirit back into their body, and then uses the ghede's blood to seal the link. Makes them damn near immortal, but it changes them and people can always tell what they are. There was a priest, back in the seventeenth century or so, said they carry the grave with them, like death riding on their shoulder. Sam, where's Dean?"_

The question broke him, his voice suddenly thick as he pushed away from the screen.

"When they... when they had him and he killed the boy. I think... I think maybe some of Sa..." he couldn't say it either, recognised the hitch in his voice from Dean's in the garage. "Some of the kid's blood got into him."

_"Hell. But Sam, that shouldn't be a problem. The spell only works on a spirit, a dead spirit, not on a living person."_

"I almost lost him, Bobby. I think... I think I did."

The confession was almost silent, the hum of the laptop loud in the hush that followed.

_"How?"_

The older man's voice shook, hard, cracking on the single word.

"Last night. We were hunting a poltergeist. It took him, hanged him. I got him back but it took too long...He's... he's sick Bobby. Real sick. The doctors don't know what to do."

_"The revenant's blood must have carried the spell with it. If he...dammit, if he died, it would transfer to him. How long Sam?"_

He curled in around the sudden pain in his stomach, feeling the knife twist, the confession making it suddenly real, _Sam, there's nothing else to try. I'm so sorry, _playing over and over in his head.

"The doc said tomorrow, at the latest." He whispered, his voice hitching as the pent up sob escaped him.

_"Okay. Okay, listen to me, Sam. Calm down, boy. You have to do the spell again, right? You hear me?"_

"What?"

_"The spell binds the dead spirit into the body again. Right now, Dean's still alive, so it's the spell that's killing him. You have to lock Dean's living spirit into his body, but you got to do the ritual while he's alive. Otherwise the original spell will run its normal course and he'll..."_

The older man didn't need to finish. Sam shivered, pushing himself up in the seat once again.

_"Call me, okay Sam? You call me when you and Dean get out of there."_

"Yeah. I will."

_"You bring him here. Both of you, get yourselves down here for a while."_

Sam couldn't speak through the pain in his stomach, dimly heard a low, muffled sob echo over the miles to him before the phone went dead. He held it against his ear for a moment longer, not wanting to break the contact, finally letting it slip between fingers gone numb. It clattered to the table, bounced over the edge and thumped onto his leg, ended up balanced precariously on his knee as he stared at the spell on the laptop, the light from the screen turning his face cold and pale.

It took him an hour to find everything he needed.

An hour of his hands shaking, his head spinning and his nerves fraying before he stood in a musty herbalists shop, his money clip slipped from his quaking fingers, sending notes fluttering to the floor. The young woman behind the counter giggled, the scent of pot wafting around him, making the hunter light-headed as she crouched too close to help him gather them up. Her arm brushed against his with too much pressure to be accidental, the breath that tickled his cheek smelling of the weed and her own odour, rank and sour. He practically growled at her, snatching the bill from her hand, couldn't stop the embarrassment rising in his cheeks as she gasped and scurried back to the other side of the counter. She didn't speak to him again as he handed her back the note, took his change and the small pack of dried, long dead herbs and left, her gaze tickling the back of his neck all the way down the dusty street.

Rounding the corner, he stopped, heart thumping wildly in his chest as he leant against the wall of the bank beside him. His knees turned weak, shivers chasing each other through his limbs and up his back into his skull. He tipped the side of his head against the wall, the stone scratching at his ear as he dragged his free hand across his face, air fluttering between his fingers as he pushed out a slow, trembling breath. He was beyond exhausted, running on the last, thin dregs of stubborn will and the image of his once invincible big brother, curled up, child-like, shivering and scared beneath layers of thick blankets.

"Come on, man. Get a grip," he muttered to himself, not listening to the rasping of his voice as he pushed himself away from the red brick, careless of the worried, fearful glances shot his way through the plate glass windows. Stumbling a little, he forced his heavy feet along the sidewalk until he turned the last corner into the parking lot, almost walking straight into the side of the big muscle car. His hands shook again as he fumbled with the key, finally jamming it into the slot and twisting it hard, yanking the door open and all but falling behind the wheel.

He blinked as the ripe, sweet scent of rum hit him, glancing down at the large plastic bag in the footwell. It sloshed about noisily as he reversed out of the parking space, the railroad ties soaking in the alcohol poking at the sides of the bag and he held his breath, seeing it strain. It held and he turned back to the road, guiding the big car out into the traffic, praying - again - that he wouldn't meet any cops.

The sun glared at him from the horizon as he drove back through the town, shop windows bright, the streets filling with lengthening shadows around him. He stopped at a red light, watched a few late copper leaves dance their way erratically down the street and he squeezed his eyes shut, watching again as his brother's blood turned them red and black, at the start of all this, so many years ago.

Horns blared impatiently and he jumped, startled, snatched a glance at the mirror as he shoved the car into drive and pulled away, grimacing at the angry gesture flung his way from the car behind. Finally, he pulled into the motel parking lot and let the engine die, sitting in the seat, staring up at the stairs in front of him.

The metal mesh of the treads was rusty, worn, the frame beneath them dented and loose. His gaze tracked up the steps, to the battered, flaking paint of the door to their empty room, feeling ice settle into his nerves, burn along his veins. His fingers curled around the wheel, knuckles pressed white as the sun finally fell below the ridgeline, going out in a blaze of glory that set the sky aflame.

"I can't," he whispered, the sound thick and choked by the lump in his throat. "I can't do this again."

He dropped his head and stared at his boots, resting lightly on the pedals as the night fell around him. The fear fluttering through his every breath made the dark even lonelier, but he didn't climb out of the car, lost in memories he didn't want anymore.

_Sitting in the passenger seat, sleeping there night after night, inhaling the lingering scent of his brother, worn into the leather over the years, his heart shattering as he tasted it but he couldn't go into the empty, silent motel room. Not alone. Reaching up and turning the key so that the radio hummed, quietly sang him to sleep with Joe Elliot's voice. He shivered, curled into the seat as the words washed over him, "...try to shake this sleep that burns, the darkness screams its icy breath, as daylight dies a thousand deaths..."_

Sam shuffled lower in the familiar seat, rolled his head against the window, staring at nothing for a moment longer before dragging the crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket, mumbling his way through the chant, over and over as the radio played softly around him in the dark.


	8. These Gods Aren't Faking It

**December 2nd **

_Wait, there's never been a mess like this. __  
__No more hands to hold. __  
__The page turns tomorrow with the hurt to give up. __  
__Curse us as God has (sold us). __  
__Believe me, Hell has no room for your crime (here). __  
__So beat me, until the blood and the bone finds our end near_

_**~~HoC~~**_

He watched the sun rise, the blinds turned to let the light stream into the room. It hit the tiled floor, splashed across the edge of the wall in a spray of gold. It looked warm. He shivered in the shadows, aching, feeling cold hands curl their way up his spine, spiking into the half-healed breaks in his ribs, biting at his throat.

He closed his eyes, sank back into the dark, clutching at the blankets wrapped so tightly around him he could barely breathe. Slowly, he listened to the world outside his room, holding on to the sound. The soft repetition of the beeping monitors lulled him, the voices on the other side of the door fading into a murmuring hum. Past and present twisted up from his mind, pitying stares from hours and years ago mingling nauseatingly with the rehearsed, empty platitudes.

'_...very sorry...nothing more we can...your heart is damaged...don't know what's happening...I'm really very sorry...a few weeks...hours...so sorry...sorry...so sorr - "_

"S-s-s-crew s-s-s-or-r-r-y," he breathed, squeezing his eyes shut, tired anger blazing a brief heat through his veins. But he had nothing left, no strength to fight with anymore, just the ache and the cold that wound itself through every inch of him, draining him.

He forced his eyes open again, watched the sunlight creep across the floor away from him, feeling the tremors wracking his frame slowly fading as his muscles finally grew too weary to maintain the last, desperate attempt to generate some kind of heat.

A tear slipped from his eye, traced an ice cold trail he barely felt, down across the freckles starkly painted over the bridge of his nose, trickling down his cheek until it disappeared into the pillow. His vision faded, dimmed until all he saw was the bright fall of light, tumbling over the walls and the door, everything in him yearning to reach out and feel the warmth of it against his hand.

The empty room stretched out around him, terrifyingly huge, somehow agonisingly claustrophobic at the same time and for a moment he was jolted back to the first, desperate breath that had seared his throat, stinking of resin and earth and beneath it the sickly sweet taste of decay. Dull, muted echoes of the rasping cry he couldn't hold back, hadn't had to hold back in so, so long doing nothing to drown the screams still ringing in his ears.

The steady rhythm of the beeping changed, turned harsh and strident, dragging him back to the tiled floor and the paint flaking from the walls and the smell of antiseptic, astringent against his tongue.

_Come back, Sammy. Please._

He would have flinched at the thought if he'd been able, the quiet little voice whispering in the back of his mind, giving words to the helplessness, the loneliness he hadn't let himself recognise.

_I can't do this alone._

_**~~HoC~~**_

The bag thumped against his back, the spikes of the railroad ties digging into the scar, rum still gradually seeping from the iron of the offering and through the thick canvas. He ignored it, forced his heavy feet to take another step and another, blinking gritty eyes as he made his way through the quiet parking lot, the great expanse of asphalt mostly empty so early in the morning, just a few cars glittering in the barely risen sunlight.

Vaguely, he wondered who they belonged to, if the people they normally carried now sat at bedsides keeping silent watch over their friends and family. He knew most of them would pray, to god they may not even believe in but who was still the only hope they had left. How many of them would do the things he'd done when hope was ripped away from him? How many of them would give up the things he'd watched his family offer, time and again, when sacrifice was all they had left?

Sam shook his head once, hard, angry at himself for dragging the past up the stairs with him as he slipped through the doors and made his way through the corridor. He hoped the bloodshot eyes that had peered at him from the Impala's mirror as he parked the car would convince the few orderlies and nurses he met that the smell of alcohol was nothing more than the result of a long night, drowning his sorrows.

It seemed to work, most of them smiling at him sadly or frowning in disgust as they passed, and he breathed a long sigh of relief as he eased the door to his brother's room shut behind him, blinking in the sunlight that fell straight into his face. He squinted through the glare, barely able to make out the dim shape huddled on the bed but feeling the weight of his brother's eyes press against him. Somehow, he didn't want to step forward out of the light, the shadows filling the rest of the room with a chill that seemed to crawl under his skin.

"Dean?" he called softly, not really expecting an answer. The steady beat of the monitors skipped once, settled back into the same monotonous rhythm and he sagged a little, winced as the bag, caught between his back and the door, clanked loudly.

_Come on, Sam. Get a grip._

It was his brother's voice in his head, younger, lighter, freed of the memories that haunted it now. He finally stepped forward, his gaze falling on Dean as the older man stared at the door, at him.

"Hey man."

Green eyes flickered once and Sam frowned, feeling his heart rate kick up a gear as he took in the stillness, the silence around him.

"Dean?" he tried again, saw the same flicker, heard the same stutter in the steady beeping but nothing else and knew he was running out of time. "Look, just hold on, alright?"

He almost flinched as the memory crept out of the dark, _'just hold on, alright? The hospital's only ten minutes away.' Glancing in the mirror, his brother's eyes fixed on his every time he did so, never wavering, holding his gaze with a desperation he didn't know how to answer._

"Dean, look, I know how to fix this, but you gotta hold on, just a little bit longer."

He thought he saw his brother nod, didn't know if it was real or just wishful thinking but smiled anyway, a feeble, twisted grin that felt as wrong as it probably looked. Pushing the fear fluttering along his nerves aside, he stretched up to the ceiling, yanking the cover of the smoke detector there loose and tearing at the wires inside. Then he turned and walked to the corner of the room, letting the duffle straps slip down his arm into one hand and reaching into the bag with the other. Pulling out the first of the four iron spikes, he unwound the long strip of coarse cloth swaddling the rough iron and tugged gently at it. The glue he'd mixed last night held and he laid the spike down, head in the corner of the two walls, the sharp tip pointing at the bed. The talismans printed on the cloth were stark, the dark pigment glaring even in the shadows as he moved to the next corner, laying out the next spike, and the next until all four corners were similarly decorated.

The air rippled against Sam's skin as he rummaged through the bag again, the cloths glued to the railroad spikes fluttering a little. He ignored it, pulling a wooden bowl and several small sachets from the duffle, pouring the herbs into the bowl, wrinkling his nose at the pungent smell that wafted up towards him.

Sandalwood, Black Snake Root, Rue and Capsicum, the latter making him sneeze twice as he poured it in. He didn't laugh, didn't even look up at his brother behind him though he could feel the humour in the older man's gaze. Instead he reached into his pocket and pulled free a battered, scuffed Zippo lighter, cradling it for a moment as he stared down at it.

_I woke up, and it was so dark Sammy. I thought maybe this was hell. Shut in there, in the dark forever._

For an instant, he thought Dean had spoken aloud and he almost turned, whispered under his breath;

"I couldn't do that. I couldn't leave you in the dark."

The monitors stuttered and Sam closed his eyes, for the first time deliberately pulling up the memory of tucking the lighter into his brother's hand, curling the cold, limp fingers around it tightly.

"Sam? What's going on?"

The memory shattered and his head snapped up. Tom stood in the doorway, gaping at him, eyes wide and shocked.

"Tom, hold on - "

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Sam?"

"Wait, Tom, listen to me."

The doctor shrank back as the hunter rose to his feet and Sam instinctively hunched down, trying to make his height less intimidating. He stepped forward, reaching out one hand, the wooden bowl still clutched in the other.

"Please, let me explain."

Tom hesitated and Sam took another step towards him, praying the doctor wouldn't have him thrown out of the hospital. He could barely breathe as he waited, hand still outstretched, finally sighing in relief as the other man came into the room and shut the door quietly behind him.

"This had better be fucking good, Sam," he whispered urgently, anger beginning to replace the shock.

Sam swallowed nervously, grinned shakily and dropped his hand.

"You remember you said you'd even accept voodoo as a cause?"

"What?!"

"How about as a cure?"

"You've got to be kidding me. Sam, come on. I know this is hard, and believe me I wish to hell there was something, _anything _I could do, but this... this... this _mess _isn't going to help anyone."

"Please, Tom. I've got to try."

"Sam, your brother is dying. It's awful, it's beyond fucking horrible, but spells and magic and damn voodoo don't work."

Sam laughed bitterly, forcing up a mask that didn't take any effort at all to believe in himself.

"Neither does medicine, apparently." He softened his voice, let four months of solitude fill his eyes. "Please. Just let me try. What have you got to lose?"

"My damn job," Tom muttered and Sam almost smiled. He'd won the doctor over, could see it in the way the white coat fluttered as the other man sighed.

"Ok, but if anyone comes in and finds us, you're doing the talking."

"Us? Tom - "

"No, Sam. You want, you _need _to do this, fine. Some people have to fight, even when they know they can't win, have to try anything they can, just so they can say they did. I get that. But I won't let this hurt Dean in any way, you hear me?"

The shorter man glared up at the hunter, eyes blazing and Sam smiled at last, despite his misgivings, abruptly glad he didn't have to face this alone.

"Ok."

He flicked the wheel of the Zippo as he said it, touched the flame to the brittle herbs in the bowl, the incense flaring bright for a moment before the dry flakes settled to burn with a sullen glow. He carried it to each spike, dragged the iron and the printed cloth through the smoke, Tom muttering curses softly behind him about fire alarms and smoke detectors and what the hell was he thinking... Sam smiled again, hoping the doctor never looked up to see the wires dangling free from the small box in the middle of the ceiling.

Returning to the middle of the room, he dug into the bag again, pulled out a larger bag, carefully pouring the black dirt onto the tiled floor, tracing out the veve he'd painstakingly committed to memory as he sat in the car in the motel parking lot.

"What is that, Sam?"

He thought the doctor sounded nervous, decided he probably couldn't blame the man but didn't bother to lie. If this worked, they would be gone long before the repercussions of the truth could cause any problems. If it didn't work... he sighed bitterly.

"Graveyard dirt, ash and St John's root."

"Graveyard dirt? Fuck."

The sigil completed, Sam reached into the bag one last time and stood stiffly, clutching a bundle of dark red cloth. Unwinding it, he walked slowly to the bed, watching the doctor follow him from the corner of his eye.

"Tom, you gotta trust me, okay?" he warned, as he pulled the last of the long strips away from the knife wrapped inside.

"Sam!"

The doctor grabbed at his wrist but Sam pulled back, fast enough to leave the shorter man stumbling.

"Trust me, Tom! Please!" he begged, trying to catch the doctor's eye but Tom wouldn't look at him, eyes wide and scared again, fixed to the wicked knife held loosely, comfortably in the hunter's hand, his own fingers hovering over the call button at the head of the bed. Neither man moved for a moment, the air in the room taught and thick, finally broken by the quiet, rough whisper.

"Tom. 'S 'kay."

The doctor flinched, but Sam didn't move, staring at him as Tom looked down at his brother.

"Dean?"

"Trus' him."

"Please," Sam added his plea to his brother's and the doctor finally met his gaze, holding it for a long moment before nodding once and stepping back. Sam didn't wait, pressing close to the bed and gently lifting his brother's hand. He hesitated, the knife-edge brushing the older man's skin.

"Do it, S'm."

"You sure?"

A smile flickered through Dean's eyes, fixed on his.

"Okay. Hold on."

Sam gently pressed the blade down, hearing Tom curse behind him again as blood welled up under the keen edge, soaking into the cloths he quickly pressed against the wound. He bowed his head as he muttered the chant, over and over until the air in the room changed, shifted around him.

He lifted his head, took one last look at his brother and turned, his attention fixed to the shadow pacing slowly around the edge of the room, from one railroad spike to the next, circling them. The tall staff in its hand clacked softly against the floor.

"Sam?"

"Be quiet, Tom. Whatever you see, don't make a sound."

The shadow paused as he spoke, the weight of its regard pressing down on him until he sank to his knees.

"Why'd'ya call, boy? Hmm? Why'd'ya call Papa 'ere?"

The voice whispered through him, sank into his bones and for a moment he saw endless rows of gravestones stretching out behind it, sunken, tilting, leaning against each other and going on forever. The sight sucked at his mind, begged him to walk the long rows but he squeezed the cloths in his hands, felt his brother's blood seep hot and slick between his knuckles.

He lifted his head, stared at the shadow as it flickered from one corner to the next.

"I called you to ask you to bind him."

"A bindin' on him? Ya bruther there, so col'. Do ya know what y'ask, boy?"

"Yes."

"'E's bound a'reddy! Would ya do d'at to him? Bind him again? Chain 'im to ya?"

"No. Not to me."

"Ah. Den ta who, boy?"

"Himself."

The spirit laughed, the sound of bleached bones picked clean, clattering together as it threw its head back, shaking the staff at the ceiling.

"Bind his spirit back into his body. Your binding, instead of the revenant one. That's all."

"All, he say! All! Ya don' see, boy! Ya never saw da way he burn down there, way he still burn up 'ere. Ya never saw him scream, boy."

Sam flinched, felt his throat lock up as he shook his head, mutely.

"But he don' burn now, Samuel. The cold, she took him and she froze all dat fire dey lit in him and she made it bettah. He don' burn no more. He don' have ta remember the t'ings he done, dere, 'ere. He don' burn so now."

Sam caught a breath, couldn't let it go again as his head turned involuntarily until he stared at his brother and his heart shattered as he saw the truth written there.

"Dean," he whispered, suddenly lost, unsure, feeling the shadow flicker around them again, hearing wood click against the floor. His stomach twisted as he realised it matched the rhythm of the soft beeping from the monitors perfectly. His brother looked at him, green eyes dark and dull, stripped bare of all the walls and the masks, nothing left to hide the hurt and the guilt behind. He saw the fear in his brother's eyes, of the memories he couldn't let himself remember, of the things he couldn't forget and it blurred, the salt stinging his sore, tired eyes.

"Ya can let'im go, Samuel. Ya can let'im forget."

_...there aren't words. There is no forgetting. There is no making it better..._

"No."

He thought the floor should have opened up and swallowed him for saying it, the guilt suddenly twisting like a knife in his back. Instead, he watched his brother try to smile, eyes fluttering closed as he sighed, lips still pulled up at the corners.

"I can't."

"Are ya sure, Samuel? Once ya tell me yes, there ain't no goin' back. No' for eider of ya, no matter what come. No matter what it do to ya."

"Yes. I'm sure."

He could barely get the words out, his voice as rasping and broken as his brother's in that moment. He forced himself to his feet as the Loa nodded, stepped in towards the middle of the room, shaking out his hands, lifting the tall, twisted staff above his head and Sam heard the doctor, almost forgotten beside him, gasp. He stepped back, reaching out to grab hold of Tom's hand and pull the shorter man behind him, feeling him tremble.

The light still streaming into the room fell across the Loa's face, and Sam recoiled, the barely visible shadow suddenly all-too clear. The dark resolved into a long coat, a high collar framing a face that had once been handsome. But now the cheeks were hollow, dark eyes he couldn't look at blazing from within deep pits, lips thin and taut. Black hair straggled from the Loa's scalp, tangled with charms, silver and wood and bone, clattering together as the ghede turned to regard him again.

"Las' chance, boy."

"Do it," he grated, fighting to keep his feet as the full force of the Loa's grin hit him.

"Okay den. Jus' remember, Samuel, in times ta come, dis was your choice. Yours alone."

The ghede took another step forward, the staff cracking against the tiles like a thunderclap. Sam felt every instinct scream at him as it loomed over the bed, over his brother, reaching out a too-long fingered hand to slip it under Dean's cheek and tilt his head up, crouching a little.

With a start, the younger man realised his brother's lips were tinged with blue and he sucked in a horrified yell, strangling it as Tom surged against his back.

"Sam! We have to - "

"Tom, be quiet!" he hissed, digging his fingers deep into the doctor's arm as the ghede paused and turned towards them a little. The doctor struggled against him but Sam squeezed his hand tighter until he felt nerves grate against bone and Tom gasped in pain. The Loa turned back, reaching up with one hand to the charms in its hair, the other hand turning to frame Dean's ashen face, one long thumb stretching out to brush over his closed, bruised eyes.

The moment it touched his skin, the hunter's eyes flew open and he surged up against the Loa's hand, back arching, limbs twitching. The Loa murmured something, pressed his hand against the stricken man's face until the skin around them bleached, fine tendrils of black creeping out across Dean's face, a filigree of shadow stretching from jaw to temple.

"Ay!"

The Loa's shout made Sam jump, the scene playing out in eerie silence until that moment, the cry rumbling like a distant storm, echoing strangely.

"T'ree times I bind ye! In blood," the Loa spat against his hand, the spittle black and heavy, smoking faintly as he smeared it across the hunter's brow. "In earth," and the Loa plucked a charm from its hair, "An' in my own name I bind ye! T'ree times bound, hunter!"

The Loa cried out once more, a wordless shriek of raw power and the lights flickered, went out, the monitors suddenly wailing as the air turned so cold Sam saw his breath plume in front of him, the tears trickling down his cheeks crackling as they froze in an instant.

In the dark, he heard a sound he knew he'd never forget. His brother, screaming, as if something was ripping him apart, tearing him to pieces and Sam cried out, barely feeling the floor come up to slam into his knees with a dull thud that echoed in the sudden silence.

_~~HoC~_


	9. Fake It

_A/N: I'm a day late. Sorry! Blame it on a long-ass weekend, working and trying to sort out my Season 4 DVD. Damn you Warner Bros! *shakes fist*_

_Anyhoo._

_Here it is! This was one of my favourite chapters to write - but a warning: Dr. Tom's got a potty mouth. Again. I tried tellin' him, but he's stubborn..._

_Enjoy!_

_~~HoC~~ _

_I'm one step from forgiveness,_

_and two steps from my grave._

_We're all just passing through._

_I'm three steps from redemption, _

_four from the devil's door._

**_~~HoC~~_**

The lights flickered again, came on, buzzing fitfully, the air heavy with the smell of wet grass and hot stone. Sam stared at his hands, curled into fists against the tiled floor, the veve he'd drawn across the pristine white burned away until only a faint shadow remained, hardly visible.

He knew the Loa was gone, the terrible weight of its presence lifted with the dark. Behifnd him, Tom gasped suddenly, sucking in air as if he'd never tasted it before. Sam just crouched, frozen, the echoes of his brother's scream still ringing in his ears. He felt the doctor lean on his shoulder as Tom scrambled to his feet, saw his shadow flicker over his hands as the older man stumbled to the bed, but he couldn't move, couldn't look up to see his brother bleeding, broken, torn apart all over again.

"Sam?"

The hoarse croak didn't register with him for a moment.

"Sammy?"

His breath caught, stopped as his hands clenched into fists.

"Sammy, c'mon dude."

He looked up, a sob hiccupping out of him as he saw green eyes looking back at him.

"Dean?"

A crooked grin, faltering a little as Dean rasped again, "Yeah."

He never remembered crossing the space between them, just suddenly found himself grabbing at his brother's hand feeling Dean squeeze back, not caring that the bones in his hand grated together painfully as he laughed and sobbed, collapsing against the side of the bed. Dean threw an arm around his shoulders, leaning closer, mumbling nonsense promises in his ear as the younger man wept himself into an exhausted stupor.

Tom stood on one side, gaping at the man he'd known was dying, was _dead, _just minutes before and now clutched at his brother's shirt, kicking frustratedly at the blankets still wrapped tightly around him. Dean finally looked up at him over Sam's shoulder, quirking one eyebrow.

"Wanna give me a hand here doc? A guy could die of heatstroke in this place."

Stumbling to the bed, Tom yanked at the blankets, his hands shaking so much he could barely force his fingers to close on the thick material.

"Hey."

He stopped at the quiet, hoarse call, looked up at Dean.

"It's okay."

He laughed, wincing as he heard the manic edge to it.

"Okay? What the fuck is 'okay'? I just saw a...a...a man appear out of nowhere, fucking _heal _you just by touching your head and giving you a damn charm and then disappear again! 'Okay' is so far gone I can't even remember it now!"

Dean looked surprised, pried one hand free of his brother's shirt to grab the small charm left behind on his chest.

"The hell...?"

"Exactly," Tom muttered, finally ripping the blankets free and throwing them in an untidy heap at the foot of the bed.

"Look, I'm sorry you had to find out like that. Hell, I'm sorry you had to find out at all, okay? But welcome to the real world, doc. All those things that go bump in the night, all the stories you thought were just made up to scare the kids, it's real. Now you've just gotta deal with it."

The doctor sagged against the footboard, hand automatically reaching out for the chart hanging on the end, searching for something familiar to cling to.

"How? How do I deal with it?"

He watched Dean shrug from the corner of his eye, one hand still twisted in his brother's shirt.

"You just do. You move on, forget as much as you can, if that's what you want to do."

"What if I don't want to?"

Dean stared at him for a moment, surprised again.

"You find a way to live with it. Maybe you ignore it. Maybe you try and help people who need it."

"Like you do? Sam told me you're investigators, helping people the cops can't. I guess this is why they can't?"

He flicked a hand out to point around the room, taking in the scattered paraphernalia from the spell.

"Yeah. Pretty much."

The doctor laughed again.

"This is nuts."

"Tell me about it. I got strangled by a poltergeist and healed by a god of the dead, all in three freakin' days."

Tom shook his head, still gazing blankly at the chart in his hand.

"It... he... called you hunter."

"Yeah. Like you said, we help people. That normally means hunting down whatever evil son-of-a-bitch is trying to eat them. Or worse."

"Why?"

Dean frowned at him.

"Why do it? You get hurt, hell, you get killed. And I'm sorry, but it doesn't exactly look like you get paid much for it."

"Mostly, we don't get paid at all, doc. Hunters; we all got into this in different ways. Sammy and me, our dad raised us into it. Long story. Most people lost someone. Went looking for answers, and found this instead. We do it because we want to kill as much of what's out there as we can. Because we want revenge."

"And that's it? That's enough?"

"It has to be."

"It isn't."

The muffled voice broke the long pause. Sam raised his head, eyes bloodshot, tearstains turning his cheeks blotchy.

"Revenge isn't enough." the younger man didn't look at him, stared fixedly at his brother. "Revenge just gets you killed."

Dean grinned, quick and crooked and mirthless.

"Been there, Sammy, done - "

"Shut up, Dean."

Tom watched the brothers draw back a little, saw Dean drop his chin, keeping his eyes up as Sam scowled at him.

"You don't do this for revenge, you never have. But it's gonna kill you just as fast."

"What do you want me to do, Sam?"

"I don't know, Dean! That's just it! I don't know. But I buried you, man. I had to _bury _you, and then three nights ago I had to resuscitate you, then I had to listen to them tell me they couldn't save you and I _can't, _Dean, I can't do that again."

Dean frowned, feeling his heart pick up speed, cursing the fact that he still wore the electrodes that betrayed it to the room. Sam's eyes flickered over to the screens, back to him. Scowling, he yanked angrily at the wires, tugging them free, the monitors screaming flatline.

"I can't stop, Sammy. I won't."

"I know."

He swallowed hard at his brother's whisper, almost as rough as his own, dimly aware of the doctor flicking switches, silencing the frantic wail of the alarms.

"I have to finish this."

_I have to make up for what I did. Somehow._

This time Sam just nodded morosely, still staring at him, searching his face. Finally he smiled weakly and clambered back to his feet. Dean watched him turn to the doctor, still hovering uncertainly and winced as he shifted up in his bed a little. Once again every muscle ached, his throat seemingly lined with broken glass and lethargy seeped into him, making every task monumental. _Getting tired of this, _he thought as he settled back against the pillows, listening to his brother calm the nervous, scared man.

"What happened, Sam? He.... What _was _that thing?"

"It was a Loa. A Haitian god."

"Oh come on. You can't seriously expect - "

"Tom, look. I promise, I'll explain everything. But not right now. Okay? Right now I need you to make sure no-one heard anything."

Sam's quiet, confident tone seemed to get through to the doctor and Tom cast one more glance at Dean and scurried out of the room. The weary hunter turned the charm over in his hands, rubbing his thumb over the raised shape on one side. It was the same shape he'd seen his brother cast on the floor, four roughly drawn arrows forming a cross, their heads mirrored to make a diamond shape at the tip of each line. Two circles twisted around each other, centered on the point where the arrows crossed, four more lines radiating out from the same place, each ending in a kind of foot.

"A Ghede, Sammy?"

"Yeah. Papa Ghede."

Dean closed his eyes as his brother named the Haitian god, feeling the spike of fear he'd been too numb to appreciate before. He knew how dangerous the Loa could be, the thought of his brother summoning one when he was helpless, when all he could do was lie there, barely aware of what was happening, unable to protect the only family he had left sent a pale echo of the awful cold sweeping through him, ice creeping along his veins, clawing at his nerves.

He shivered, cursed silently at the look of panic that crossed Sam's face.

"I'm fine, Sammy. Really."

"You sure? If you're cold - "

"I'm not. I promise, okay? But you shouldn't've done that, Sam."

"Done what? Saved your ass?"

"Summoned a freaking god of the dead to save my ass!"

His voice broke on the shout, cracking painfully and he winced, grabbed for the small plastic cup of water on the cupboard by the bed.

"I told you, Dean. I couldn't let you go, knowing you'd be dragged straight back down to the pit again. I couldn't bury you again."

There was nothing he could say to that. Nothing he could say when the fear turned his mouth dry, a bitter taste of burning metal sharp on his tongue, stealing his breath away.

_...He don' burn no more. He don' have ta remember the t'ings he done, dere, 'ere..._

He shut his eyes, wanting to forget again, wanting more than anything to be rid of the memories choking him, cutting him deeper than the hellhounds claws had ever managed. But scorching through every memory was the gentle touch of tears and whispers that brushed against his skin and pulled him back from the dark, put the world back in its place beneath him again as they stood in a crappy hotel room in Illinois.

"Yeah, okay," he managed, fighting down the screams, not his own that were bubbling up his throat from the hollow, cold place at the base of his spine. He fingered the charm again, felt a wave of fire surge through him, driving the chill back. "So when can I get the hell out of here? I'm starving."

Sam laughed, and the sound chased away the ice and the flames, the dark and the memories, grinning up at his brother as he tucked the charm into a fist.

"You really feel okay?"

"Yeah. Like nothing happened."

Like he wasn't revelling in the warmth of the sheets beneath his skin.

"A little tired, I guess. Kinda like I just ran a marathon and went ten rounds with Ali at the end."

Like he didn't feel every bit of heat from the sun on the other side of the room.

"But that's all."

Like the cold, dark place at the base of his spine didn't send a twist of fear corkscrewing through his nerves every time he thought of it.

The metal in his hand heated, almost searing hot for the barest moment and the shadow faded away again. He shrugged at his brother, glad, for the first time in a very, very long time that keeping a game face on was instinctual now, thoughtless. His knuckles whitened around the charm.

"Okay. I'll be right back."

"Sure, Sammy."

He watched the door long after it clicked shut behind his brother, not seeing it at all. For so long, he'd hidden behind a mask, from the world, his brother.

From himself.

And then he'd tasted graveyard dirt on a demon's tongue, and for the first time he wished he knew how to burn the masks away. He never worked out where the courage to blurt out those four words to his brother came from; _'I don't wanna die,' _but once they'd crossed his lips it was like a dam shattering inside. _'I don't wanna go to hell.' _And finally, the unsaid was heard, spoken in the silences and the words he never voiced, and Sam _heard _it, wonder of wonders his brother heard it and answered it.

But it was too late. Hell came for him; and a lifetime already lived was twisted into pure suffering, shattered and broken so many times he couldn't even tell when he'd lost himself anymore. The worst part of it was that sometimes, when the nightmares ripped him back to a world not much better than his dreams, he didn't know if he even cared. There were moments, when he struggled to breathe, to pin down the screams and the feel of the handle turning and turning in his grip and never let it out, when he wondered if it would be easier to just let go again. To just give in to the voice in the back of his soul that told him he'd taken enough hurt, enough suffering for a thousand lifetimes and wasn't it time he let someone else shoulder that burden? It was that tiny, quiet voice that finally broke him after thirty years, not his voice, not even the demons that circled him, too close, underneath his skin.

It was his brother's voice, his father's, a shifting tone that had always been Sammy, would always be John, rough and soft and so broken it hurt more to hear it than the demons claws.

More than the angel's searing grip on his shoulder.

The memory of that searing, agonising touch was faint, faded as if by a hundred years, the touch of one of the host as unbearable to the hunter as Castiel's unmasked voice was.

Now, it slipped further away and Dean found himself sorry to feel it go, the burning pain somehow fulfilling even as he felt it scorch him away to nothing. All he had left was the pale shadow of it, hot against his palm, driving back the cold and the dark as he gripped the charm so tightly the dull edges dug into his skin, stopping just short of drawing blood. He closed his eyes, clung to it fiercely and let the nightmares that never quite ended when he woke fall far beyond his reach.

He didn't open his eyes when the door clicked open, listening to his brother's footsteps, another, less familiar pair following the younger man's lazy, weary tread.

"Hey," Sam murmured, eyeing his brother as Dean lounged back against the pillows, face pale, lashes brushing the shadows bruising his eyes. Only the faintest hint of tension in his shoulders, the white knuckled fist resting loosely on his chest the only sign he was still awake.

Sam felt the doctor beside him hesitate, glancing between him and the apparently oblivious hunter on the bed.

"He's awake," he reassured her, smiling as he caught sight of his brother's lips twitching into a faint grin. The younger man watched as she stepped briskly forward, pulling a small torch from her pocket and leaning over the bed. He frowned as Dean winced away from the light a little, glaring tiredly back at her as she fiddled with the wires, refitting them fussily until the monitors began their steady beep again. Finally she turned towards him, brows pinched together in confusion.

"Your brother's fine. His temperature's pretty much normal, he's responsive and alert - "

"An' he's right here," Dean drawled hoarsely, dry as the desert, irritation snapping through his languid reminder. Sam rolled his eyes, fought back another grin; let it play at the edges of his lips. He knew the older man hated being talked over, the familiar snark doing more to settle his nerves than any of the doctor's words ever could.

"Oh, um... sorry," she sputtered, clearly flustered by the irate glare flashing up at her.

"Ignore him, doc, he's grouchy in the morning."

The glare swung his way as Sam spoke up, softened into a broad smile as Dean sank back into the pillows again.

"Well, you'll be a little sore for a day or so, after the convulsions. And you'll probably find you tire quite easily for a little longer, maybe a week. I'd like to keep you in one more night, just to be sure, but take it easy, and you'll be fine."

She smiled at them both, but Sam could see the anxious speculation in her eyes as she left, the confusion edged with something sharper - fear. He sighed, knowing that look meant they had less time than he would have liked before they had to move on, before the 'miracle' was reported and interest they didn't need, grew.

It seemed his brother was thinking along similar lines, as he watched Dean swing his legs over the edge of the bed, swaying against the fists he pressed into the mattress.

"Dean," he started, knowing already there would be nothing he could say that would change the stubborn hunter's mind.

"We gotta go before she calls the damn Pope, Sam. Or World freakin' Weekly, more likely. They probably pay better."

"One night?" he almost begged, hating the look of resignation that crossed his brother's eyes as Dean pushed himself slowly to his feet, a flicker of pain twisting his ashen features.

"No, Sam. We gotta book."

Anger bubbled up the younger man's throat, hot and sour as he sighed bitterly. If there was one thing he hadn't missed in the years he was at Stanford, it was watching his family struggle alone through hurt and pain that would bring most people to their knees. But two years apart only seemed to have made it worse, heightened his brother's innate suspicion, and the four years they'd spent together since had done nothing to ease it.

He gritted his teeth as he stepped to his brother's side, slipping one hand under Dean's elbow, afterimages playing behind his eyes, overlaying his brother as the older man's shoulders slumped and he visibly fought to push back the weakness. Sam forced away the memories of Dean leaning against the car, something behind the cracked masks in his eyes broken and weeping as blood seeped from the livid gash across his brow, the confession; "One year. I got one year," turning the victory hollow; pushed the sound of his brother screaming, fabric and skin tearing, bone shattering beneath claws he couldn't see and then the silence, the hideous, awful silence that hurt so much more than the screams. He forced the sight and the sound into the back of his mind and slammed the door on them.

"Fine," he ground out, taking his brother's weight as they shuffled across the room to the small bathroom. "But have you seen how you look?"

"Ah, bite me."

"Seriously, man, I'm talking Night of the Living Dead here."

His fingers tightened around Dean's arm, belying the mocking tone as the older man stumbled, a tautly controlled breath hissing out between tightly clenched teeth. Sam could feel his brother's muscles trembling under his hand, against his side as Dean leant into him, squeezing side by side through the doorway. He eased the exhausted hunter down to sit on the edge of the bathtub, tried not to look at the hand that snaked out and latched onto the handrail bolted to the wall. The tall man turned, stalked back into the main room, snatching the bag with his brother's clothes inside from the cupboard beside the bed. Ripping the plastic open, he recoiled at the smell of stale sweat that hit him.

"Damn."

The denim and cotton was damp, greasy against his skin as he dragged them free, shaking them out and wrinkling his nose in disgust. He headed back to the bathroom, tossing the filthy clothes at his brother, waiting in the doorway as Dean slowly stepped first one foot, then the other into his musty jeans. The older man pulled the denim up to mid-thigh before stopping, sucking in a shuddering breath, head hanging low to brush his chest, shoulders visibly trembling.

Sam took a breath, watched his brother's spine tighten, lips thinning to a harsh, determined line as Dean hauled himself to his feet, dragging his jeans up over his hips, long fingers fumbling with the fly as he leant against the tiles on the wall. The emergency alarm cord pulled tight as he leant forward, caught between his arm and the ceramic and Sam almost stepped forward, almost lifted his brother's jacket to Dean's hand.

Then the hunter's fingers caught in the thick cotton and he pulled it up with him as he straightened. Sam let out the breath still trapped in his lungs, waited while his brother eased into the jacket, leaving the stained t-shirt behind on the floor.

"We goin' or what?"

"You want your shoes first?"

Dean scowled at him and he smirked back, deliberately setting aside his worries for now as he turned back to the bed.

"Smartass."

His brother's hoarse; rasping whisper made him pause, doubt creeping up in his mind again. He knew they weren't ready, either of them, the hospital room suddenly seeming as if it was the only safe place, the corridors outside populated with people who wanted to turn them in and lock them up, with things that wanted to kill them. _Or eat them_. He could have laughed at the memory of his brother's face as the older man blurted out the same words, but he didn't, too caught up in the echo of the Ghede's voice. _'...Dere ain't no goin' back. Not for eider of ya... Jus' remember, Samuel, in times ta come, dis was your choice. Yours alone.' _

_I couldn't let you go, Dean. I just couldn't. I don't know what it meant, what I've done to us both, but I couldn't let you go again._

"Sammy?"

"Yeah. Coming."

When he held the boots out, his brother hesitated before taking them, the older man's fingers brushing against his, for just a fraction of a second too long. He didn't look up, let himself believe the lie Dean offered, just for a while. But something twisted deep inside him as the older man stood, swayed into him, cursing softly in a low, ragged gasp.

_A/N: That's it, they're out of the hospital! But did you really think I'd be done with them just yet? mwahahahaha..._

_'kay. I'm done._

_Be kind, review! One word or a hundred, it's all, always, hugely appreciated. There may even be cookies involved._


	10. Trip on my Hollow Soul

_Ghost arrives at its bitter end__  
__To the promised land and the dark descents__  
__I'm Babylon, burned inside out__  
__Nothing to kill it._

_**~~HoC~~ **_

_**390th St NE, Minnesota**_

_**December 23rd **_

He squinted into the sunlight shimmering from the damp road, turning the dull blacktop into a gleaming ribbon, silver and gold, stretching off into the hills in front of him. Eyes watering, he stretched over one hand, reaching carefully past the slumbering figure snoring softly in the passenger seat. Long fingers flipped open the catch on the glove compartment, easing the door down gently and rifling through the papers and detritus of two lives lived on the road. His touch brushed across smooth metal and he took a moment to feel the clean lines of the barrel, skating his fingertips across the engraving.

"Hmmwha's't?"

He paused, flicking a quick glance at his brother, seeing green eyes blink hazily at him.

"Nothing. It's fine. Go back to sleep."

His brother stared at him, not quite awake, something dark skittering through his gaze and Sam sighed inside, knowing too well what put it there.

"We're safe, man. Get -" _get some rest, _he almost said, cutting himself off with a snap of teeth. "Go back to sleep. I'll wake you up when we get there," he finished, praying his brother was still asleep enough to miss the slip, to not flinch as he still did, over a year after Sam had found him hanging from a dingy warehouse ceiling, blood dripping slowly down the tube inserted into his neck, shattered once again.

"'kay."

He smiled weakly as Dean settled down into the seat again, asleep before he'd even finished agreeing. Reaching out, he snagged the older man's sunglasses from the glove compartment, opened the arms and slipped them on, relaxing as they cut the glare of the sun, kissing the ragged horizon in front of him.

It took him another five minutes before he realised he was spending more time looking at his brother than at the road.

_Cut it out, Sam._

Dean's voice inside his head, so clear he glanced over once more before turning back to concentrate on the road, certain for a moment his brother was awake. He wasn't, sprawled out in the seat, long legs twisted awkwardly to fit under the dash, head rolled down, squashed into the gap between the window and the edge of the seat.

Sam grinned faintly, used to the way the older man always managed to contort himself into the most uncomfortable looking positions in his sleep. His amusement faded quickly as the road unwound beneath them, not enough miles in the world to put behind them.

Three weeks.

Three short weeks since he'd nearly lost his brother again, since he'd seen his brother through the dust of the abandoned parking garage, hanging limp and motionless - _dead, _a quiet, sad voice in the back of his mind supplied. _He was dead._

Three weeks since he'd sat on the edge of his brother's hospital bed, feeling him slipping away.

Three weeks since he'd watched the ghede touch his brother's head and listened to his screams in the dark.

He sighed again, eyes flickering over to the charm resting next to the amulet on its cord against Dean's t-shirt. As it always did when he saw it, Sam's stomach turned over, the ghede's slow voice resonating in his mind, pulling him back as the road blurred past in the gathering dusk, shadows lengthening as the sun slipped past the horizon.

_Are ya sure, Samuel? Once ya tell me yes, dere ain't no goin' back. Not for eider o' ya._

All he'd cared about at the time was getting his brother back, regardless of the cost; saving him this time and he'd ignored the warning, putting it to the back of his mind until much, much later.

He didn't remember it until they stopped that first night, ninety miles between them and the hospital in Hugo, the parking garage in Arriba. _He'd driven until the days of watching his brother fade caught up with him, the road blurring into two, the familiar logo of the Super-8 motel recognisable even through the haze of exhaustion._

_He left Dean sleeping in the car as he went to the office that night, too tired to bother putting the clerk right as the young man sneered at him, eyes darting over his shoulder to the car. But he felt a glimmer of guilty pleasure as he handed over the fake credit card, signing the receipt with a weary flourish and turning his back, walking back out into the cold to the car._

_They'd leant on each other as they stumbled across the parking lot to the room, neither sure who was holding who up, collapsing onto their beds before the door had even clicked shut on its groaning, rusty spring._

_But Sam hadn't been able to sleep, lying in the dark staring at the neon-shadowed ceiling, just listening to his brother breathe, snoring softly. When his cell phone rang, buzzing loudly against the bedside table, he'd snatched at it frantically, fumbling the device in his haste to silence it._

_"Yeah?"_

_"Sam? Where the hell are you?"_

_He recognised the voice instantly, his heart sinking as he remembered the man who'd stood behind him, been willing to stand before his brother even when he didn't know or understand what was happening._

_"Tom? Hold on."_

_Padding silently across the floor, he slipped into the bathroom and eased the door almost shut before he continued, the faint light from the room beyond slashing across his face._

_"I'm here. Sorry, man. I'm sorry."_

_"Where are you? Are you okay? Is Dean?"_

_"We're fine. Both of us."_

_"What happened?"_

_"We had to leave. Couldn't risk it."_

_"Couldn't risk what?"_

_"If we'd stayed, someone would've talked. To the press or whoever."_

_"Oh. You could've called. I've been going out of my mind. I thought that... that thing ... fuck. I don't know what I thought. You could have at least told me you were going."_

_Sam pulled the phone away from his ear, stared at it in consternation for a moment, thrown by the concern in the doctor's voice._

_"Sorry, I just...I didn't think" he mumbled again, pressing it back against his head and peering through the door at the dark room beyond._

_"You sure you're okay Sam?"_

_"Yeah. Just tired."_

_"And Dean?"_

_"Sleeping."_

_"So how about that explanation now?"_

_The hunter didn't answer, Tom's voice fading as he watched his brother sleep. Dean was quiet, rolled a little to the side, his face pale, deeply shadowed in the neon light spilling through the window._

_His heart fluttered, something was wrong. Dean moved, constantly, even in the deepest sleep he frowned, shuffled slowly around in the bed, a steady rustle of movement that had lulled him to sleep more times than he could count. But now, his brother was still, as if carved from stone._

_"Dean?"_

_He shouldered his way through the bathroom door, moving fast before he quite realised he was even moving at all, crossing the room in three giant strides. The phone thumped to the floor as he reached out, wrapping long fingers around his brother's shoulder, suddenly, acutely terrified that he would find Dean's skin ice-cold to the touch._

_The instant his hand touched the older man, Dean jerked away, flailing up with an incoherent yell, swinging wildly. Sam ducked, a fraction of a heartbeat too slow and felt the world tilt away from him as the blow grazed the side of his skull hard enough to make his head ring. Seeing stars, half blind, even as his knees buckled he reached out and flattened one hand against his brother's chest, shoving hard. Adrenaline pumping furiously through his veins, it took him a moment to register the burning sensation flaring in his palm._

_Crying out he yanked his hand back, stumbling away from the bed, dimly hearing his brother panting harshly as he cradled his hand. The imprint of the mark was already rising, blistering across his palm and he stared at it, shocked into silence._

The scar the burn had left behind itched as he tightened his fingers around the wheel, his mind turning back to the road, away from the past he couldn't run far enough or fast enough to escape. Neither of them could. It followed them, turned up again and again in their dreams until not a single night could pass without each of them lurching awake at least once. He always came out of the dreams screaming, drenched in sweat, vague memories of watching his brother dragged away from him by something that grinned insanely with a death's head smile, leering from the depths of the incense-laden shadows.

Dean never made a sound after that first night, clawing up from the silence and stillness that the dreams trapped him in as Sam watched, helpless, shattering every time he saw his brother turn away too slowly to hide the tears, bright in the dark.

The younger man sighed as Dean mumbled in his sleep, fell silent again. Reaching out again he flicked on the radio, the sound of the quiet stifling. A soft, thumping beat filled the car and Sam glanced over as his brother stirred briefly, caught a glimpse of half-awake green eyes peering at him for a moment before sliding closed again.

He yawned, pressed the gas pedal a little harder as the long, long road stretched up into the hills, as if it was trying to reach the sun almost fallen behind them. He clenched his jaw as it finally disappeared in one last flare of crimson and gold, painting the sky with blood and fire as he pulled off the sunglasses and tossed them to the backseat, Iron Maiden twisting through the steady hum of the engine.

'_...scared to take a look at the corner of the room, you've sensed that something's watching you. Fear of the dark, fear of the dark, I have a constant fear that something's always near...'_

_Of course you should be afraid of the dark; you know what's out there!!_

His brother's voice in his head again, words from so long ago now he didn't even know he remembered them. He stared at the dusk, more aware than ever of his brother dormant beside him, the raised burn on his hand rough against the wheel. _It's not what's out there that I'm afraid of Dean. It's what's in here. It's what's in you, now._

His breath hitched for a moment caught against the memory of the look in his brother's eyes in the dark after every nightmare, something that wasn't _Dean _stirring far down, a flicker of shadow that came with an echo of a laugh like bleached bones clattering together in his head.

It had taken all of a week before his brother started pushing for a hunt. Sam had held out for a while, digging his heels in with a stubborn streak that easily rivaled the older man's, determined to wait until they were both rested, hoping that the nightmares would ease off, that the feeling of some unseen, unheard danger looming over them would fade away. It didn't, it just got worse and worse until he finally gave in; finding an easy gig that looked like it might not turn into a life-or-death, save-the-world deal.

He chuckled briefly, remembering Dean's face as he showed him the newspaper reports. His brother had looked like a kid at Christmas, only the wicked glint glimpsed in his eye twisting the image into something cold and dark. That and the weapons that were quickly spread across the table, cleaned and polished, ready for the hunt.

That night, that one night, neither of them woke and he laughed again, bitterly this time, recalling standing in the bathroom the next morning, looking at the shadows under his eyes in the mirror and thinking that maybe this was all they'd needed to put the horrors of the last month behind them.

But the nightmares came back the very next night, so vicious this time that they left the motel just minutes before the manager could throw them out after their neighbors complained about the screams coming from their room. And ever since, they'd been running, clear across the country, the original gig passed on to a friend of Bobby's.

They took turns to sleep while the other drove, rarely saying more than a half-dozen words to each other, never stopping for more time than it took to fill the car with gas, grab something to eat. There was no destination, no plan, just the shared need to put empty space behind them, traveling north, west, anywhere that promised a distraction, a place to lose themselves in endless motion.

And then when Sam had woken that morning, taken his turn at the wheel as his brother crawled into the backseat without saying a word, he found the map on the front seat, a small town in Minnesota circled in a red scrawl. He'd glanced up at his brother's reflection in the mirror, seen the older man's pale face as it turned away from him, almost buried in the back of the seat and he'd listened to the sound of his brother's breathing, slow and steady. He'd turned the car east again, following the signs for Minnesota.

He slowed down, glancing at the fuel gauge as the road crossed a river, the old bridge echoing loudly. Dean hadn't woken until he stopped for gas just outside the state border, slouching down in the front seat by the time he got back from the counter at the station.

"The Thief."

Sam jumped a little at his brother's raspy murmur.

"What?"

"The river. 'S called the Thief."

"Huh. Why?"

He felt Dean look at him, could almost hear his eye roll, the older man's hoarse voice rich with faint amusement and exasperation.

"I don't know, Sammy. Just is."

"Gatzke's just a couple miles away."

"Okay."

From the corner of his eye he watched his brother rub surreptitiously at his throat, at the faint scars circling it.

"There's nothing in Gatzke, but there's a Comfort Inn in Middle River, about fifteen miles back. Figure we'll stop there."

"Sure."

Sam waited for a moment, chewing absently at the inside of his cheek.

"So what's in Gatzke?"

"Hunt. Bobby called."

He waited again, Iron Maiden fading into Deep Purple on the radio, static washing both out.

"Any details?" he finally asked, irritated by his brother's silence. Dean sighed wearily.

"I got some notes. Read 'em later."

Sam gritted his teeth as guilt replaced the annoyance at his brother's near-whisper, jagged and rough. His voice had never fully healed after the hanging, after the Ghede's touch; still slipping into a too-quiet rasp when the hunter grew weary enough. Neither one mentioned it; just one more reminder of everything they couldn't leave behind.

"Okay."

As he muttered his agreement, houses began to pass them by, pale in the twilight, Christmas lights twinkling brightly out at them. He swung the big car into one of the parking slots lining the main street, killing the engine with a quick twist of his wrist. They sat in the sudden quiet, watching the townsfolk pass them by outside, oblivious, hurrying through the early evening dark, carrying armfuls of bags and boxes.

Finally, Sam climbed out of the car, hearing the other door creak open at the same time as his own.

"We're not going to find any intel tonight," he murmured, eyeing the rapidly emptying streets. Half the small shops in the main drag were closing up already, one vendor glaring at them with weary suspicion as she flipped the sign on the door over. The holly-green tinsel wrapped around it dangled forlornly against the window. "Wanna grab some food and head back to Middle River?"

He felt his brother's nod more than saw it. Dean trailed him by a few steps as he ambled down the street, keeping his pace slow in the hope that the older man would brush past him with an irritated huff to take point.

He didn't.

He never had, not once in the three weeks of near-total silence between them. Sam sighed, wondering how many more times he would do that and flicked a glance over at a large tree, leaning precariously over the bandstand in the middle of the small town park as they ambled past it.

Three men stood huddled together in the warm glow of the lights strung around the ornate eaves of the pagoda-like stage. Something about them made him pause, his steps slowing further. He watched them as he felt Dean come up behind him, his brother's presence warm against his back as the older man stopped, shoulder just brushing his.

"Sam?"

"I don't know," he answered, for once glad of the way Dean could somehow manage to ask a thousand questions, with only his name. "They just... they look scared." As soon as he said it, he knew it was true. They looked more than scared, terrified, banding together in the cold. Slipping forward, his brother close behind, he strained to hear their hushed voices, slowly growing clearer.

"He saw something. No way Mark went out there with that shotgun unless he was after something."

"Mark had a heart attack, Joe. A heart attack. Nothing did that to him."

"'Cept your sister's cooking, maybe."

The laughter echoed around them, hollow and brittle as the ice crunching softly under the hunters' boots. Sam cocked his head, jumping as Dean grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back a little, down, breath puffing white against his ear.

"Think that's what Bobby sent us here for, Sammy."

He nodded at the whisper, flicked a glance back at his brother and almost grinned as he saw the light kindled in Dean's tired eyes.

"Something's going on out by that lake, Ben! No way do six people just drop dead on the same stretch of road for no reason."

Easing forward another step, Sam watched as the man who'd joked about the cooking - Ben - shrugged.

"Coincidence? Come on, Joe. This ain't the damn twilight zone."

The Winchester's and Joe snorted in perfect unison.

"Uh-uh. Six heart attacks ain't coincidence. Something killed all of them. Something killed Mark and I'm damn well gonna find it."

The other two men on the bandstand laughed hesitantly as their friend stormed off, footsteps loud on the wooden stairs. The hunters slipped back away from the stage, keeping to the shadows as they followed him back to the road. They paused as he slammed through a door, hearing a bell clatter loudly as the frame rattled from the unexpected abuse.

Sam frowned, watching Joe through the window, attention riveted to his brother beside him as Dean leant casually back against the wall, eyes bright as he stared at the diner. The younger man gnawed gently at the inside of his cheek, trying to tell himself that the enthusiasm in his brother's eyes was a welcome sight, but all he could remember was waking up screaming in their motel room and turning to see Dean lying too-still, staring at nothing, sweat trickling down his pale, terrified face.

Faintly, he heard raised voices from the other side of the glass and dragged his attention back to the job.

Joe stood at the counter, waving his arms at the woman standing behind it with her hands on her hips, a ferocious scowl on her face. She shook her head in sharp denial and Sam watched Joe throw his hands up and turn to storm out of the diner.

Her voice caught him halfway through the door, a strident bell-like call that stopped the scared man in his tracks.

"Joe, please."

Sam watched his shoulders droop, heard his brother snort softly beside him as the stranger let the door close again and walked back to the counter.

"What?"

Dean shifted at Sam's question, shrugging and pushing away from the wall.

"Nothin'. Come on. Let's go talk to Joe."

They strode across the street, boots hitting the road in tandem, soft echoes trailing them. The older man slipped in front as the light streaming from the diners plate glass window fell over them, and Sam barely managed to fight down the grin that spread across his face.

Squaring his shoulders, feeling as if something that he hadn't quite noticed had been missing was suddenly back where it should be, he let his height announce their presence, disguising the real threat in front of him. It was an instinctive response, a role he slipped into with an ease that sometimes scared him. Right now though, it felt good, comfortable and relaxing and he let the grin breakthrough to play at the corners of his lips.

The brothers moved to the counter, perching on the stools next to Joe, neither one looking at the man beside them, both watching him in the distorted reflections cast across the array of coffee pots lined against the wall.

"What can I get you boys?"

The woman smiled at them, warm and false and Sam let Dean answer.

"Coffee'd be good, thanks. Black for me, white and sweet for him."

"Sure."

The cups were set down just a little too forcefully in front of them, Sam's heart jumping into his mouth as Dean hissed and jerked back beside him, snatching his hand away from the coffee that slopped over the rim.

"God, I'm sorry."

Dean leant towards him a little and Sam could see the effort the older man put into relaxing, projecting _calm_ and _safe_ to him and to the woman as she stretched stretching out a hand with a dripping cloth to the hunter. He took it, swiping it over his fingers and mopping up the coffee spilled around his cup.

"It's okay. No harm no foul."

His voice was low, husky and only Sam knew it had nothing to do with flirting and everything to do with the faint scars ringing his throat. Switching on the charm, turning the grin all the way up to seductive as he handed the cloth back, Sam watched his brother work his magic and set the rattled woman at ease.

"Can I get a slice of pie with that?"

Sam rolled his eyes but had to admit it always worked. Somehow, the sight of a fully grown man almost groaning out with pleasure as he shoveled forkfuls of pastry and fruit away never failed to ingratiate the hunter to the locals, disarming them. Judging by the raised eyebrows sent in their direction from the scattered occupants of the diner, this town would be no exception.

On the other side of his brother, Joe snorted, shaking his head gently. Dean's fork paused and he turned fractionally, conjuring up an injured expression Sam could picture all too well.

"What?"

Just the right hint of indignation mixed in with self-deprecating humour, and the other man flicked a glance at the brothers, a reluctant smile quirking his lips.

"Nothin'. It's just good to see someone enjoyin' themselves round here, is all."

"Oh?"

It was mumbled around another mouthful and Sam took a slow sip of his coffee, as if he wasn't interested at all in listening to his brother chew the fat with a stranger.

"Joe."

The low greeting came from behind them and the tall man felt his nerves twitch as he listened to the warning in it and realised he hadn't heard the door open, hadn't seen the man he now struggled to catch a glimpse of in the pots against the wall come in.

Joe stiffened, looked back down at the cup cradled in his hands, the curled heels of his palms scuffing through the rings of coffee marring the worktop and smearing them across the worn Formica.

Between them, Dean didn't move but Sam could feel the tension creeping along his brothers shoulders, could almost hear his heartbeat pick up speed as he lazily forked up another bite of pie.

"Just talkin', Paul."

"These folks don't want your horror stories, Joe. Go back, see to Annie and Sara."

Dean swallowed, chased the pie with a mouthful of coffee and leant back on his stool, flashing the waitress a bright smile. The sullen, scared man on the other side of him nodded slowly and slipped off the stool, turning to slink towards the back of the diner as Sam nodded fractionally in answer to the subtle shift in Dean's eyes, catching his in the pot.

The older man leant forward again, murmured to the waitress;

"Got a restroom?"

She nodded, preening a little under the blatant appraisal the hunter was regarding her with and gestured at the local man weaving his way through the tables.

"Follow Joe there."

Dean grinned again and hopped off his stool with a quick, "Be right back" for Sam and a polite smile for the new-comer still standing behind them.

The younger man watched him go, took another long sip of coffee to drown the nerves fluttering in his stomach. Something seemed off with the man behind him, the way he couldn't see the stranger's reflection clearly, something that slipped under his skin and crawled along his spine.

"You boys staying here in town?"

He stiffened, hearing the echo of another man's voice in his head, '_We get a lot of someone's here, son. Some get found, some don't want to be. Maybe you should just move on.'_

"No. Just passing through. The tourist thing."

Somewhere, he found a careless shrug, flicking his eyes from one coffee pot to the next, only seeing a vague blur that shifted uneasily.

"Take no mind of Joe. Some folk get a little nervy when bad things happen. Start seeing conspiracies everywhere. Or ghosts and monsters."

The stranger put an odd emphasis on the last phrase, a kind of knowing tilt to the hazy head, eyes glittering clear for a moment beneath the brim of a large hat, ancient and cold and all too knowing.

_He knows. Oh hell, he knows we're hunters._

He forced out a little laugh, shrugged again and didn't quite know what else to do but breathe a sigh of relief he was sure they could hear three states away as the stranger nodded, a blurry hand touching the brim of a blurry hat and then he disappeared as silently as he'd come.

Sam set his empty cup down on the counter, watching his hand and wondering why it wasn't shaking. He almost fell off his stool as a stream of dark coffee slopped its way into the mug, glancing up to meet the waitresses smile.

"You want any pie?"

He had to smile.

"No, I'm good thanks. My brother... he has a kind of... a thing for pie."

_And don't forget the pie!_

The two year old call slid like ice down his spine and he swallowed hard, forcing the caffeine he'd just drunk to stay down.

"I can tell," she murmured, oblivious to the memory charging roughshod through his head.

Sam nodded, made himself take another gulp of the coffee, not caring that it scalded the roof of his mouth. The rest of the drink sat unnoticed, cradled in his hands, the surface rippling steadily with each breath as he waited.

By the time he heard the restroom door swing open again, it was stone cold. He dug a few bills from his pocket, left them fluttering to the counter with a nod of thanks and fell in behind his brother as Dean stalked to the door, eyes burning.

The night air slapped the younger man in the face and he shivered, frowned, zipping his jacket up to his chin, wondering how to tell his brother about the moment the world seemed to drop an inch beneath him as the stranger tipped his head in that knowing nod. _First things first, _he decided.

"What'd you get?"

"Not here."

The answer came through gritted teeth and Sam sighed, following his brother's furious pace back to the Impala at the end of the main street. He waited for Dean to unlock it, sliding into the passenger seat and wincing as the driver's door slammed shut.

"Ten people, Sam. About every fifteen years, whatever the hell it is goes on a spree and kills ten people. Men, women. Children."

The last was ground out, so rough he could barely make it out through the rage choking his brother's voice.

"Six so far?"

He forced his own query to be neutral, professional, felt the fury rippling from the older man in stifling waves settle a little as Dean steadied, focussed on the hunt.

"Yeah. One every nine days. Next one's due tomorrow."

"Okay."

Sam scrubbed a hand over his lips, mind racing.

"Okay," he repeated, twisting to reach into the backseat. "So we've got tonight to figure this out." He grabbed at the strap to the laptop case, muttered a curse under his breath as he missed and tried again.

"I guess."

Frowning, Sam stretched, snagged the strap and hauled the case up and over the benchseat, pulling the laptop out with one hand and twisting to face his brother.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I dunno. Just... that guy. Joe. He was... off."

"How?"

The light of the screen washed over him, reassuring in its familiarity as he signed in and waited for the machine to boot up.

"Like maybe he knew something about what's going on but didn't wanna say."

Sam froze, staring at the screen, fingers resting idle on the keys.

"Sam?"

_Could they both know? Joe and that other guy?_

"The other man in the diner."

"The one who shut Joe up?"

"Yeah. He knew."

"Knew what?"

"That we're hunters."

The car went so silent, so still he would happily have sworn he could hear the world turning. His eyes watered from staring at the screen and he blinked slowly, forced his head up to look at his brother. The older man's eyes were fixed on nothing, his face pale, jaw set so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek.

"Children, Sammy."

It was a question more than anything else and he nodded.

"Okay."

Dean shot a glance at him, eyes too bright, face unreadable as he started the engine and backed out of the slot. Sam hadn't seen that look in months, not since Litchfield. They drove in silence again, one he didn't know how to break as he watched the meter in the corner of the screen flicker slowly, searching for enough signal to be useable.

"Here."

The soft word dropped like a stone between them and he started typing, even as Dean slowed the car and pulled in to the side of the street. The older man still didn't speak, just sat beside him, a heavy presence weighing against his skin as he worked, searching through page after page of websites, dimly aware of his brother thrusting a heavy coat at him.

He shrugged into it, shivering suddenly, breathed in leather and smiled faintly, calling up the next page and reaching to rub at his tired eyes.

He scowled at a page, peering at the screen in the dark as he tried to decipher a scanned manuscript, the ancient text almost illegible.

"His brother-in-law."

Jumping a little, trying to pretend his heart wasn't hammering at his ribs, Sam looked up.

"What?"

"The guy they were talking about in the park. He was Joe's brother-in-law. He had a kid. A little girl. She's autistic. He said they can't even tell her that her father's dead."

He bit his lip, watched Dean white-knuckle the steering wheel for a minute.

"We'll stop it."

The glare that the older man shot him should have burnt a hole clean through his skull.

"That won't bring that little girl's father back, Sam."

"No. it won't. But it'll stop any more ki -"

He bit off the words as the colour drained out of his brother's face.

"Oh no."

"Dean?"

"Oh hell no."

"What is it? What's wrong?"

His hands were already acting, flipping the top of the computer down as Dean shoved the car into drive and pulled out, the sight of the moon dropping below the horizon making Sam blink and check his watch.

"Joe. I knew something wasn't right, I just freakin' _knew _it!"

"He went after it?"

"Yeah. What you said, about stopping any more kids losing their Dads. He said exactly the same damn thing and I didn't see it."

"I still don't know what it is, Dean. We don't know how to kill it."

"What's your point, Sam?"

He looked at his brother for a long moment, until Dean threw an angry glance at him.

"What?"

"Just be careful, okay? We can't save anyone if we get ourselves killed going in unprepared."

"I don't care about killing the sonofabitch tonight, Sam. We just go in and get Joe the hell out."

Sam eyed his brother, feeling as if someone was slowly, tauntingly pulling the world out from under their feet, the sickening free-fall sensation of nerves churning through his stomach as he wondered if Dean knew, as he did, that there was no way they could possibly be in time.

As he flexed his fingers, curling them in against the rough scar on his palm, he wondered if it even mattered.


	11. Too Late To Realise I Was The One Buried

_A/N: Thanks to all of you reading out there, and especially to the reviewers. If I knew where ya lived, I'd send y'all cookies for real but I don't, so have a great big slice of angst instead. Oh, and there's a bit of language on all sides in this one. They're having a bad day..._

_~~HoC~~_

_I've lost you in this place of nightmares that scream inside my head_

Separated from the body, hand over your soul please

Don't scream, just tell me what is real

Let's seize the day; dark thunder will light my way.

_~~HoC~~_

It lay in moonlight, silvered by it, until the shadows cast by the ripped grass and torn earth seemed bottomless. The damage fanned out around the corpse and as the hunters stepped over the long gouges torn into the ground, Dean was vaguely aware of his brother pausing and crouching, running long fingers through one trench, murmuring softly,

"What the hell?"

He reached the body first, stretching out a rock-steady hand, gritting his teeth to keep the trembling in his veins locked down. Blood slicked his fingers, still faintly warm to the touch as he rolled the corpse over, swallowing hard as his gag reflex kicked in. He heard his brother's gasp behind him, listened as Sam spun away and forced his own gaze to linger on the dead man's face.

The bruises mottling Joe's skin made his features fade into the dark, but Dean recognised him anyway. Guilt twisted in him, made his throat tighten painfully and for once it wasn't simply weariness that roughened his voice.

"Sorry, Joe."

One blue eye stared at him accusingly from the ruin of a face, the other lost in the mass of swelling and bruising and he felt the blood drain from his own face as he realised what the discolouration meant.

"Sonofabitch," he breathed, rearing back in shock. Only the hand that wrapped around his arm stopped him tumbling onto his backside.

"Dean?"

"He was alive."

"What?!"

He flinched at the tremor in Sam's voice, feeling the hand on his arm drop away, the cold space at his back deepen and knew his brother had stepped back, instinctive, horrified denial.

"An hour, maybe two. Bruises don't form for long after death, Sam. Not like this."

"God."

He stood, wiping his hand distractedly on his jeans, feeling his finger catch in the tear in the denim.

"This bastard dies. Whatever the hell it is, it dies."

Dean didn't look at his brother, just turned back to the Impala, waiting on the edge of the road. Climbing in he wrapped his hands around the wheel and stared out through the windshield, not seeing Sam as the tall hunter crouched in his place beside the body, scanning the remains and the surroundings.

All he saw were the tears streaming from broken eyes, lit with fire, crying, screaming, begging him; and a child, long hair flopping over his pale face, dark eyes staring at him, cold and hollow through the bruises.

The door creaked beside him, the car settling as his brother eased into the seat and he knew his brother talked to him, could hear the noises but they made no sense, meaningless sound lost in the white noise drumming through his head.

He let it, still catching the faintest echo of the screams and whispers of the dead. The thrum of the engine rolled through him, pushing them farther down to the place his nightmares were born. He drove in a daze, vaguely, watched trees blur past and winced away as moonlight reflected too bright from the lake, stabbing into his eyes.

The radio burped static at him and he looked down, almost surprised to see his own long fingers twisting the dial, searching, _hunting._ He shivered, felt his brother tense beside him and sighed as music drifted from the speakers, slow and sad and guilty.

_'...I said if I should die, and my soul becomes lost, then I know. It's nobody's fault but mine.'_

Pain spiked up from his jaw, the puppy-dog eyes turned on him from the other side of the car burning far more agonisingly.

_I wish..._

He cut the thought off before he could finish it, too familiar to let him pretend he didn't know what it was.

"Dean -"

His foot slammed against the floor, the engine screaming as the revs climbed and red-lined, the howl drowning out his name. The lake disappeared behind them, the body sprawled face up, staring at the sky as it paled swimming in front of him as he drove through it again and again.

Slowly, he heard his brother's voice, echoing strangely, a one-sided conversation that tethered him, pinned him squirming against the world.

"Yeah. If anyone else's around... that's great Bobby. No. We're good. Just... just too soon, I guess."

The quiet reluctance snared his drifting thoughts, brought them crashing back to the roar of the engine and the wind whipping through his hair. Angrily, Dean reached over, snatched his brother's phone and snapped it closed, tossing it onto the back seat.

"We're finishing this hunt, Sam."

"Dean."

"I mean it! we're putting this sonofabitch in the ground, permanently."

Sam watched him for a long moment, silent, eyes calculating.

"What's going on with you, man?"

He risked a quick glance at his brother, shied away from the stare that cut too deep.

"Nothin'. I'm fine."

"No, Dean. You're not fine. You haven't been fine since Litchfield."

His breath caught, the breeze against his face suddenly icy and dead, heavy with a whisper he couldn't quite hear.

"Sammy -"

It was his turn to be interrupted as the younger man exploded beside him, long arms suddenly taking up way too much space inside the car.

"Don't! Quit telling me you're alright! Stop shutting me out, Dean! Please!"

He ducked a hand, flung in his direction with a savage wave and opened his mouth again but Sam tore on before he could speak, words tumbling from the lanky hunter's tongue so fast they tripped and stumbled.

"You were _gone, _Dean! I found you and there was _nothing left! _I was too fucking late, and somehow, _somehow _you came back again! And then I had to watch you walk away from me _every single time_ I tried to help you, Dean, every time I tried to find a way to make things okay, just _once! _The way you did for me so many times when Dad was an ass or things got so screwed I didn't know what to do anymore. Somehow, you always found a way to make things alright, and I let you - but you just kept on walking away and leaving me behind and then I had to - to find you hanging in that _fucking _garage and you were dead, Dean. Again."

"Sa -"

"And then I had to call up a damn god of the dead to _save _you 'cause I couldn't think of anything else to keep you here with me and he did something to you but I don't know what and I'm... I'm scared, Dean, 'cause I think whatever it was he did is taking you away again."

The shouting tailed off, ending in a dull whisper, punctuated by twin thuds as Sam's hands thumped down at his sides, his broad shoulders slumped and heaving. Dean shot a quick look across at his brother, swallowing hard at the tear tracks streaming down his face, incandescent in the false-dawn.

"I'm not goin' anywhere, Sammy."

He could feel the silent question, had to force himself to keep his eyes on the road.

"You said you'd wait. Remember? In the Firebird. You said you'd wait." He repeated it like a charm, like a prayer, staring at the road as it turned grey and flat in the weird light filling the air. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I just... I can't. Not yet. I don't know how to tell you."

A trembling hand raked through his dishevelled hair, his voice cracked on a half-laugh, a thousand miles away from anything remotely resembling humour. "What I can do, is hunt, Sammy. Hunt this bastard down." _Hunt it, kill it, kill something evil again, something that deserves it._

He fought not to flinch as the screaming echoed up from the dark place where his nightmares slept, pale and faint but stinging, ever-present at the backs of his eyes. _Something that isn't innocent and never was._

"Please."

He'd said it so many times to his brother, but only meant it so badly a handful of them. Standing beside another lake, bottle warm in his hand, _just give me some time to figure it out, Sammy. _

The engine droned on in the quiet dawn, the weight of his brother's eyes heavy on him crushing him, enfolding him.

"Yeah, you're right. Okay then."

He grinned, knew it was more of a grimace as Sam huffed, still pissed enough that his glare could have melted a hole through the windshield.

_I'm sorry. Sorry I don't know how to do this. Sorry I never have. Sorry I can't make everything alright again._

Dean remembered watching his kid brother kick through dead leaves, laughing and smiling and felt a pang of grief slice through him. _I'm sorry I couldn't keep you safe from this._

Sam huffed again, tight shoulders relaxing as he shot a glance across the space between them.

"What, Sam?"

Dean almost winced as he rasped it out.

"Dude, I can hear you thinking from here."

He blinked, thrown by the sudden shift in his brother's tone. He'd never quite been able to keep track of the younger boy's mood, reading each one as it scrawled itself across his expressive face but always racing to try and keep up.

"I... uh..."

"Dean."

He looked over again and fell straight into the warm hazel that stared calmly back at him.

"Whenever you're ready. I mean it, man."

His throat stung as he swallowed dryly. For a moment he couldn't speak, couldn't remember how to breathe as he looked back at his brother, suddenly young again, thirteen, staring at him past a dead man's arm clamped around his chest, trusting him with a surety that made his eyes burn.

"Oh god..." he managed, couldn't finish as Sam smirked and turned back to the window. Dean stared at him for another long heartbeat, suddenly realising his brother had changed. He lounged in the seat, relaxed against the leather with a confidence and ease that reminded the older man forcefully of their father.

_He grew up._

The thought reassured him, scared him, cut deep into him as he knew what it had taken to turn his lanky, gangly baby brother into the hunter beside him.

He looked back to the road; let the growl of the engine drop as the sign for their turning came into view. All he wanted to do was shove the pedal to the floor and drive on, never stop, the unwinding miles falling away behind them into the past, distance between themselves and their nightmares.

The big car swung smoothly through the turn, tyres squealing softly on the cold, dry road.

"Motel's about two miles down."

Sam's quiet murmur almost made him jump, his heart thumping hard against the inside of his ribs as he flicked a quick glance over at the younger man.

"Okay."

He yawned hugely as he said it, caught the worry concealed in the look of familiar disgust his brother shot him and grinned back, reaching up again to scrub one hand through his short hair. His fingers stilled as they brushed over a faint scar on the back of his head, the crash as his skull slammed into the side of the Impala in the parking lot echoing in his mind.

The grin drained away as he shook off the memory of the revenants swarming around him, over him, too many hands pinning him down against cold concrete and colder metal as a dead man breathed into his ear; _remember me Dean?_

"Dean?"

The hunter flinched, blinked out at the dawn slowly burnishing the clouds.

"Motel was back there. We just passed it."

"Crap."

It sounded hollow, even to his ears and he felt his brother's gaze on him sharpen.

"You okay man?"

"Yeah. 'M fine."

Swinging the car into a tight U-turn, he swallowed against the tight itch in his throat, coughing lightly to try and clear it and wincing as the action scraped barbs through it instead.

"Want me to drive?"

"I said I'm fine, Sam."

The way his voice cracked and disappeared altogether on his brother's name wasn't particularly convincing and beside him Sam sighed, crossing his arms across his chest again.

"Fine!"

"Fine."

He waited, felt the irritation scrub at his skin, sandpaper rough until he couldn't stand it any longer.

"Bitch."

The younger man snorted, the tension between them snapping away.

"Jerk."

Dean smiled gently and turned into the motel parking lot. He eased the Impala into a space and left the engine running as Sam unfolded himself and creaked the door open, clambering out with a soft groan as he stretched.

"See if they got cable, will ya?"

His brother waved a hand in answer to his rough croak and the older man settled back into the seat, one hand resting on top of the wheel. He indulged himself with another jaw-popping yawn, feeling the weariness settle over him like a shroud. It dulled the grey light filtering through the clouds, turned the sound of the occasional car passing on the road behind them to a muted hum he felt rather than heard.

When the first whisper brushed across his mind, he thought it was just another car. It came again, an echo so faint it was lost in the sound of his own breathing. He didn't need to hear it to recognise it, to fear what was coming and to know that he couldn't ever fight it.

_Fire laced through his veins, ripped him apart, flayed away skin and muscle and sinew until nothing was left but bone, and all the while he screamed._

_Screamed, as bone charred and blackened and finally crumbled away until nothing was left but dust that blew away and scattered on the burning wind._

_Screamed, as he was made whole again and a voice murmured in his ear, _**you always wanted a miracle, Dean,**_ and then the fire came back again and again._

_And he screamed as the fire died in the cold that twisted up his spine, turned the lightning searing his eyes to impenetrable shadow and he felt muscles twitch and strain under his hand, against the shreds of rope still tight around his wrist, bone shattering in his grip, cold blood trickling down his skin._

The nightmare fell away as suddenly as it had come and he lay still, spent, feeling the warmth of the leather under his back, sticky with salt against his cheek. Cold glass pressed against the top of his head, the thrum of the engine vibrating through his body.

Cars whispered past, seeming as though they were a thousand miles away from where he lay, shattered and lost, unable to even open his eyes as the last traces of the fire and the cold drained out of him.

Finally, he blinked his eyes open, stared out at the morning sun as it broke through the cloud and bathed the car with light. Vision still blurry, his mind still foggy with weariness and the dream, he watched the office door open, his brother's unmistakable figure stepping out and pausing. He felt Sam's gaze land on him, summoned up a smile from somewhere and peeled his head away from the back of the seat, giving a lazy wave as the younger man trotted across the empty parking lot towards him.

"Hey."

He didn't answer, wasn't quite sure he trusted himself to speak yet as Sam dropped into the passenger seat.

"We're round the back, room nine. She said we could park at the end, should be able to see the car from the room then."

He recognised one of the unwritten rules of their lives and just nodded, forcing a soft grunt of acknowledgement past the razor blades lining his throat as he shoved the lever into drive and crawled slowly across the parking lot.

The silence when he finally killed the engine was deafening.

Neither brother broke it as they grabbed their duffles from the trunk, knuckles clashing when they both reached for the extra weapons bag. He took it, the pressure of the argument Sam didn't voice heavy on his shoulders as he hefted the extra weight and tried not to feel the way his muscles trembled.

The bag swung as he walked, knocking gently against his leg on every other step, the feel of the metal inside oddly reassuring and by the time he reached the door with the skewed brass number nine on it, the tightness winding up his spine had eased.

Shouldering the battered door open, he cast a wary glance over the interior on the other side, sighing as he saw its empty, quiet splendor. Two large beds, invitingly thick mattresses covered with thick quilts and piled with cushions sat on either side of a low cupboard, a squat lamp glowing gently from its top. The carpet sucked at his ankles as he wandered in, weaving his way past the sturdy table, laid out with a courtesy tray and a two place settings, the small kitchenette on the other side gleaming immaculately.

He whistled, heard Sam echo him as a tall shadow blocked the sunlight streaming through the still open door behind him.

"Jesus, Sammy. You win the lotto or something?"

His brother chuckled and brushed gently past him, dropping his bag on the bed furthest from the door.

"I figured we deserved a bit of luxury for a change, but I didn't expect this."

Dean stared at his brother, taken aback by the warmth in his tone. It wasn't the first time in the last month he'd found himself surprised by the little gestures the younger man seemed determined to make, like insisting on eating out at a restaurant two states back, instead of their usual take-out from the closest diner or drive-thru. When he'd asked Sam about it the tall hunter just shrugged and looked down at his feet, too late to hide the flush spreading over his cheeks and Dean hadn't mentioned it again, but he'd seen the looks that Sam shot his way every so often, as if his brother was scared he was dreaming and would wake up any minute to find him broken again.

There were moments, when he woke up from yet another nightmare, blind and terrified in the dark, that he thought maybe he felt the same.

Dean slouched over to his bed, dumping his bags beside it and dropping onto the thick, soft mattress with an appreciative sigh. Sam wandered to the door on one side of the room, peering through it for a moment before turning back into the main room and crossing it with slow strides. The older man watched him fiddle with the kettle and cups on the worktop of the kitchenette, then head over to the window, lifting the edge of the thin privacy curtain to gaze out at the parking lot.

"Dude. Sit down or something, will you? You're making me dizzy."

Sam turned back to him, looking a little bemused, the shadows hollowing his eyes at odds with the brightness in them.

"You wanna crash for a few hours?"

"Nah. Not particularly."

Sleep was the last thing he wanted, the nightmare in the parking lot still fresh and too vivid in his mind. He twisted, swinging his legs up onto the bed and crossing them at the ankle, settling back against the headboard.

Sam dug his laptop out of its case, dropping into one of the heavy chairs at the table as he fired it up, the sudden rush of nervous energy making him twitch and bounce one knee as he waited for it to boot up. Just watching him made Dean feel even more weary and he slid down a little, settling as he listened to the keys rattle, gazing blankly at the sun slowly making its way across the wall.

A shiver crept up his spine as he remembered watching the same thing from the hospital bed, lost in the emptiness of the room and the cold that he knew was slowly killing him.

He let his eyes slide closed, forced his attention back to the present, drifting in the dark, anchored by the sound of his brother working on the other side of the room.

"Alright. I think I got it."

Sam's voice echoed down through the dark behind his eyes. Blinking, Dean sat up, coughing a little and wincing as it stung his throat.

"Wha's'it?"

The younger man watched him for a moment, and the hunter rolled his eyes, finally noticing that at some point, his brother had pulled the curtains, turning the large room shadowy and close.

"Sam. What?"

Sam stood, walked over to the small fridge as he answered.

"A Peg Leg Jack."

"A what?"

Dean coughed again, reaching up to rub at his throat before he could stop himself. He grimaced, staring down, picking at the fraying edge of the tear in his jeans as he waited for the inevitable question.

"A Peg Leg Jack. It's Scottish. Also known as Fachen or the Dwarf of Glen Etive."

The bottle of water thumped against his leg. His head snapped up, startled, something easing inside him as he saw his brother settling back in his chair, eyes intent on the laptop screen in front of him.

"It's a halved man. One leg, one arm, one eye... Supposedly, it haunts roads, often by lakes. Its appearance is so terrifying; anyone who sees it has a heart attack. Legend has it that it carries a chain, and would lay waste to an entire orchard in a night, breaking branches and tearing up the ground with it."

"Yahtzee."

Dean smiled as he twisted the top off the bottle, letting a long swig slip over his tongue, the cold water soothing the scratchy heat in his throat, warming the weary chill in his heart.

"Yeah."

"Anything in there on how to kill the damn thing?"

"Not specifically."

"Wonderful."

"Other halved men legends talk about a hawthorn staff or fresh water."

"That's it?"

"Pretty much."

"Well that's just peachy."

Sam shrugged, but the older man could see the unease in the set of his shoulders.

"Fine. If that's all we got, let's go find us some damn hawthorn."

He rolled to his feet, a low groan escaping him as his spine crackled loudly.

"No."

Dean stopped, staring at his brother, blinking as Sam gazed at the floor, seemingly entranced by something buried in the depths of the thick carpet.

"Come again?"

"I said no, Dean."

"Well unless you've got a secret hawthorn fetish I don't know about, Sam, we need to go find some if we're gonna kill this sonofabitch."

"Not right now we don't."

"Sam -"

"Did you think I didn't see what happened in the parking lot Dean?!"

He pulled back as the younger man suddenly surged to his feet, towering over Dean, arms waving wildly as he yelled.

"You can't even stop for five minutes without falling asleep, without... whatever - there's no way you... hell, there's no way either of us is up to hunting that thing down tonight."

"What do you want me to do, Sam?"

He tried hard to keep his voice reasonable, couldn't stop it dropping to a low growl as his hands balled up at his sides, the dull, lingering ache in his knuckles making him snarl and shake the fists out.

"I want you to get some freakin' sleep, Dean, before you keel over in the middle of the damn hunt!"

"I can't!"

The despairing cry echoed around the cozy room, cracking harshly, bouncing from the walls. It hung there between them, the confession he'd never wanted to voice, wished he could drag back and smother, bury somewhere deep inside where he never had to hear it.

Dean dropped his head, stared at his boots, trying to find some sort of control over the turmoil raging through him. He could feel Sam watching him, just as messed up as he was, just as worn down and exhausted. Glancing up, the hunter took in the sight of his brother, gaunt and haggard, wide eyed in the gloom.

_He's scared. Scratch that, he's downright terrified. For me._

The thought stunned him, shook him so badly he heard words coming out of his mouth and almost didn't recognise them as his own.

"I can't shut it out when I sleep. I can hear them screaming."

"Dean -"

He could no more stop now than he could levitate to the ceiling.

"And I can hear him. Sa..." he dragged in a shuddering breath, forced himself to say it. "Sammy. The kid in Litchfield. I can hear him... I can feel his fucking neck breaking when I killed him."

Something hot splashed onto his hand and for a moment he couldn't work out how Sam's tears could be falling on him when his brother stood on the other side of the room; a table, two chairs and forty years of hell between them.

"I can't sleep, Sam. I'm so freakin' tired but it's going to break me, hearing that. Feeling it. Every time, Sam! Every goddamn time! I just c-can't."

His breath hitched and he finally realised they were his tears, burning his eyes and cheeks. Weary beyond belief, he sank to the floor, leaning a shoulder against one leg of the bed. Folding his knees up, he dropped his head to his arms and rested his elbows on his knees, trembling and too tired to even care.

He listened to his brother as Sam took a slow, hesitant couple of steps towards him. The silence that followed sliced at him, the distance between them too great, too old to cross on his own. Hunching his shoulders a little, he sank further into the thick carpet, shifting his hands up to dig his fingers into his arms.

The bed shifted behind him, groaned softly as he felt the mattress dip. He didn't look up.

"I know it's not enough, but I'm sorry."

It should have sounded lame; Hallmark sympathy. Hollow, dry eyed, he stared at the frayed hem of his jeans.

"Yeah."

At his rough murmur, a hand dropped against his shoulder, not holding on just resting there, giving him space to pull away. He leant into it, twisted until he could roll his head to lie against the mattress and he felt it bounce gently as his brother flopped back onto the bed with a tired sigh, arm still brushing his shoulder.

Closing his eyes, he let the weight and warmth of that hand flood into him, grounding him as he drifted, the tiny, gentle snores rising behind him pulling him back to the world, back to safety every time the screams started to drag him away.

_~~HoC~~_

_A/N: There really isn't much information out there about the Peg Legged Jack or Halved Men, so most of this is conjecture. But when I saw the name, I had to use it!_

_Hope to see you all next week for the last chapter of Darkness!_


	12. This Frozen Border

_**A/N: Hard to believe, I actually started writing this story just over two years ago. It turned into something of a labour of love, but this is it, the final chapter! MASSIVE thanks (and many, many cookies) to Zatnikatel and Anne1013 - for reviewing and the odd kick up the butt when I needed it...**_

_**There is more to come in this series - the third story, Like Watching Shadows Fall is underway, but it kinda got sidetracked a little by a couple of other projects. So while I have absolutely no idea of when it's going to happen, I'm definately coming back to this 'verse. I've got plans. BIG plans... In the meantime, I'll keep posting some of my older stories here, so I hope to see you for those!**_

_**I'll shut up now.  
**_

_~~HoC~~  
_

_This Frozen Border_

_Now something crawls right up my spine__  
__that I always got to follow.__  
__Turn out the lights,__  
__don't see me drawn and hollow,__  
__just blood running warm._

_**~~HoC~~**_

The chain whistled past his ear and he felt it slam into the soft ground at his feet as he flinched away. Mud spattered his jeans, wavelets sucking at his ankles as he pushed weary legs to keep moving in a clumsy sprint to where a motionless figure lay huddled on the lake shore.

He heard the links of the 'Jack's chain slither over the ground, an eerie, grating sound that scraped at his nerves and he hunched his shoulders as he ran. Blood trickled down his cheek from a swelling gash just under his eye, torn open by the rough edge of the chain as the creature drove the brothers apart.

The heavy thud of the younger man's body crashing to the ground echoed through his head as he ran, gasping for breath in the cold, damp air. He clenched his fists, ignoring the stab of pain as the hawthorn splinters driven into his palms dug deeper, all thought of killing the 'Jack forgotten in the frantic need to reach his brother's side.

Sam hadn't moved since the chain had lashed across his chest, lifting him effortlessly and flinging him past Dean's desperate reach, a startled, pained gasp the only sound the tall hunter made as the blow drove the air from his lungs.

He ducked away, dodging further into the lake as he sensed the creature running towards him, its single leg balanced by a rough stump bound to its side. He knew how strong it was, could feel bruises stiffening his side from the glancing blow that had tossed him back six feet minutes before.

_Don't look at it! Whatever happens, don't look at it!_

It wasn't much of a plan, but it was all they'd had. That and the hawthorn staffs now lying in a splintered pile at his brother's side. Twisting, Dean scanned the lake shore, squinting as the wind whipped icy needles of spray into his face. He could hear the creature, the sound of the chain it carried as the links clattered against each other, the unnatural sound of its lone foot slapping against the mud.

"Come on, bitch!"

His yell was drowned in the rush of the wind and he put his back to the lake, staggering slightly as the waves shoved at him. He held one hand out to the side, the other lifting absently to brush across the amulet and charm on their tie around his neck. The charm was warm, almost hot to touch and he pulled his hand away, staring down at it in surprise.

Dean blinked, the sound of the storm disappearing for a moment beneath an echoing laugh like shattered gravestones clattering together. Startled, he sucked in cold air, laden with the spray, stumbling back a step and his foot caught on the tangled roots and branches entrenched in the lake bed. Off-balance, he tried to yank his leg free, arms flailing as he fell awkwardly, water fountaining around him.

His back smacked into the mud, the thick layer not enough to stop the landing from knocking the breath clean out of him. Dazed, he just blinked as the water surged over him again, washing icy fingers across his face racing in and around and over him. The cold brought him round again and he struggled wildly to break the suction holding him down, helpless as he sputtered and splashed.

The hunter's eyes widened as he peered through the spray kicked up by his efforts and saw the lop-sided figure loom over him. Throwing all his weight into it, he rolled hard, hauling himself free of the mud with an effort that left him gasping. He wasn't quite fast enough, the chain crashing across his legs, only the scant protection of the water softening the blow enough to keep bones from splintering under the tremendous force.

Instead, both limbs went instantly dead and useless, dragging behind him as he scrambled away from the 'Jack stumping after him. Gasping against the pain, he rolled over to his back, eyes darting to the silent shadow on the ground, barely visible through the steadily increasing rain.

"Sam!"

He never expected his brother to answer, never even really expected anyone to hear the breathless rasp but his heart sank when the shadow still didn't move. Tearing his gaze away, Dean stared down the length of his legs to the 'Jack, approaching slowly now, ginning maniacally. Through torn denim he could see bruises already rising, livid across his broken skin, blood soaking into the shredded material of his jeans. The rain and lake water stung in the cuts inflicted by the chain, the tingling as the nerves woke again almost as agonising as the injuries themselves.

He felt the bottom drop out of his stomach as he tried to haul himself to his feet and failed, falling back into the lake as the 'Jack drew cautiously closer. Swallowing hard, the hunter realised he was helpless, unable to run, no weapon to fight with, no one to stand at his back.

He was alone.

For a moment, he wondered if there had ever been a time when that hadn't bothered him, didn't set his teeth on edge and his heart racing. Now, since Litchfield and Pontiac before that, the quiet that surrounded him whenever he was alone was filled with screams, with the hollow sound of bone shattering under his hand and the sight of feral eyes glittering at him as he worked.

"Screw you," he ground out, blinking away the double-exposure effect of the memories layered on top of the sight of the hideous creature shuffling closer until its single calloused foot sank into the mud, thick toes digging at the chilled skin of his thigh. He kept his gaze trained on the things chest, his brother's warning echoing through the screams softly filling his head.

It hissed at him and he snarled back at it, lips curling in revulsion as he clawed blindly through the mud beneath him with one hand for something, anything to use against it. His fingers closed around rough, sharp edges, tightened at the same time as the 'Jack wrapped one massive fist in his shirt and hauled him effortlessly into the air, the jagged rock coming with him.

His feet dangled, a good foot above the wavelets lapping at the single, tree-trunk leg as it shook him like a ragdoll, his head snapping back and forth. Squeezing his eyes shut, he rode it out, gritting his teeth against the pain as bruises were strained, against the nausea as the violent motion sent vertigo rampaging through him.

Disorientated, he let the momentum of one vicious shake fling his arm forward, every ounce of strength he had left sending the stone held in his hand smashing into the side of the things head. It growled and swayed, stumbling deeper into the lake, its foot slipping on the mud and it took Dean with it, thick fingers still twisted in his collar as the water splashed around his waist.

He looked past its shoulder at the shore, at the faint glitter of light from the distant town and grinned, lifting the rock and bringing it down full force, so hard the jolt sent sparks of heat through his shoulder.

The 'Jack reeled back, greenish blood spilling down its face as it stumbled over an unseen ledge in the lake floor and dropped, hunter and creature disappearing beneath the churning surface of the water.

Dean reached up, grabbed hold of the hand at his throat, feeling the powerful currents tug at him, pull him away from the safety of the shore, further under the water. His grasping fingers slipped away, sliding on the slick pelt as his strength waned. Forcing his eyes open against the stinging cold, the hunter stared at the creature as it shoved against him, bringing up both hands to dig them into the thick, rough muscle of its arm. Its sneer was full of malice, utterly human as it twisted and jammed its single foot against his side, kicking out at the bruises it had already inflicted. Dean groaned in a involuntary rush of quicksilver as his ribs screamed in protest, clamping his lips shut as the precious air escaped. The 'Jack squirmed out of his weakening grasp, surging away from him in a powerful current that tugged at the hunters body as he thrashed weakly at the water.

His lungs burned, throat spasming with the instinctive urge to breathe. He kicked as hard as he could, bruised muscle and bone screaming, crimson wreathing the water around his legs as the ragged tears the chain had ripped through his skin flowed freely. He stretched out a hand, lips spreading in a snarl as he strained after the 'Jack and caught hold of its single foot, digging his fingers deep into the massive tendons and holding on as it kicked frantically. Past its writhing shadow, he could see the surface of the lake, shining like mercury and just as untouchable.

They were too far down, the undertow pulling them deeper even as the hunter and his prey struggled in the cold, dark water. He spared one last glance at the surface, almost sure he could see a shadow breach it, shaking it off as a trick of the shifting light as the dark slipped in around the edges of his vision.

_It's a dangerous gig, I drew the short straw. End of story._

His own words, years old, whispered in his head as he wound his arm tighter around the 'Jacks leg, locking it tight. He almost laughed, would have if he had any breath left.

_I didn't get it, Sammy. I do now. I'm sorry, kiddo._

Because when it came down to it, it wasn't the end of the story. If it was as simple as that, he would have been able to mourn his brother after Cold Oak, would have been able to burn the body and move on. He knew that night, carrying his brother's weight alone, that he'd lied from the hospital bed. That it had never been that simple.

That it never could be.

'_She doesn't understand where her Dad is. Why he isn't coming home again.' _

Fire burned through his veins as they sank ever deeper, the tinny echo of Joe's words in the diner bathroom two days ago ringing in his head, stirring something he couldn't quite remember from the back of his mind. Some familiarity he couldn't place through the roaring in his ears.

'_She keeps looking for him and I don't think she'll ever stop. That bastard, whatever it is and I don't care if you think I'm crazy too, it isn't human. It killed him, and it might as well have killed his daughter too. She can't even ask where he is.'_

He let his eyes drift shut, the last dregs of air tickling his lips as it crossed them. He couldn't feel the Jack beneath his numb fingers anymore, just knew he hadn't let go. His head rolled back in the currents that brushed his cheeks, icy fingers caressing his skin as the water dulled the force of the blows the single massive fist was raining on him.

'_This bastard dies. Whatever the hell it is, it dies.'_

He tasted the promise on his tongue like a forgotten memory he listened to the blood pounding through his head, heard it slow, falter.

The cold swept around him, too bitter, too harsh to be the soft comfort of the water. His eyes snapped open, staring blindly as his back arched, his mouth stretching wide in a silent cry as it surged up his spine, shuddering down his arms, the muscles twitching and jerking. The 'Jack pinned in his grasp stiffened, thrashed once against him, crushing itself against his chest and he felt something shift within it, draining away into him, sinking into that cold, dark hollow at the base of his spine as he tried to scream.

His arms fell open, the lifeless, shrunken body slipping away from him, an empty husk as he twisted in the water. He felt himself following it, tumbling down into the emptiness that surged up around him, clawing at nothing as he fought the undertow.

Then something slammed against his chest, white-hot, jolting him, snapping his head back again. It pressed against him and he could feel the skin blister around it as he scrabbled to pry away the iron bar that seemed to be clamped around him. Long fingers caught at his jaw, yanking his head around and he stared at terrified hazel eyes as his brother held him, dragging them both up to the surface, miles above.

The fear in Sam's eyes twisted inside him like a knife and for a moment he was back in the dark, lost again, pulled back to the world by the fingers laced in his and the tears that burned his skin. Nothing had been the same since then, the world had shifted on its axis around him until nothing made sense and it seemed as if he'd just been falling from one crisis to the next, driven by the screaming in his head that never stopped. And all the time, that scared, worried gaze kept pushing him off-balance, knocking him over again every time he thought he'd found his feet. Because for the first time since he'd held the infant in his arms and watched their lives burn to ash, the fear in Sam's eyes was _of _him.

The burning in his lungs, forgotten for a moment, came back in a dizzying rush of adrenaline and Dean kicked, ignoring the agony of the wounds as his legs tangled with his brother's and he pulled his head out of Sam's grasp, gazing desperately up at the surface, too far away.

The final burst of strength drained away as quickly as it had come, and he felt his body still, betraying him, felt every muscle relax at once as he fell back into his brother's strong grip. The world dimmed, the cold and the hurt drifting away from him, the screams ringing in his head fading until finally, there was nothing but quiet.

_**~~HoC~~**_

He breathed, spat out the taste of mud and grit, coughing as it found its way down his throat. Rolling feebly to his side, Sam blinked his eyes open, squinting against the dark and the rain. He groaned quietly, a shiver working its way down his back as the rain and wind chilled his body. Letting his head drop back to the wet ground, the hunter shifted uncomfortably, the sharp ache of the ribs the chain had cracked sending millions of knives darting under his skin as he struggled to get his breathing under control.

Still panting, he finally rolled to his knees, gasping as the pain flared. Clutching at his chest, he felt the sullen, stiff burn of the bruises and winced as he pulled his shirt up, peering down at the dark contusions spreading across his torso.

"Damn," he whispered, letting his shirt fall again and straightening with a hiss. Sam scanned the shore line through the gloom, grabbing at one of the hawthorn staffs lying like so many broken matchsticks beside him and clambering painfully to his feet.

He froze halfway there, as he saw two distant figures through the rain, one holding the other aloft effortlessly as he struggled.

"Dean!"

Two figures who, as suddenly as he saw them, were gone in a geyser of water.

_"DEAN!!"_

Mud kicked up behind him, spattering his legs as he ran, sliding with every step. He splashed into the lake, tripping over roots and debris and throwing out his hands to catch himself as unbalanced, he pitched forward into the water.

Gasping with the cold, he lurched to his feet again, gritting his teeth hard enough to send a stab of pain up along his jaw and into his skull, drowned out by the cacophony building in his ribs, behind them as his heart thundered in his chest.

Throwing himself forward again, he passed the ledge, barely realising there was nothing under his foot in time to stop himself falling over it the way the 'Jack had, taking his brother along with it. Catching his balance, he sucked in a deep breath and dove untidily into the lake, feeling the brush of currents pluck at his clothes as he pulled himself down, peering through the water.

He saw them instantly, the shorter figure clutching at the deformed Halved Man as it writhed in his grip. Sam winced as he watched it kick his brother hard, Dean's face twisting with agony he could see through the murky water. Sam kicked harder, diving down after the pair, his lungs already burning, his heart pounding wildly as he saw the 'Jack slip free of his brother's grasp for a moment, only to be caught again.

But even as he watched, thrashing at the water desperately, he saw Dean's body slacken, only the tight grip the hunter had on the creatures leg unchanging.

_No. hold on, Dean, I'm coming. Hold on!_

He kicked harder, knew he would be too late as he saw the 'Jack start to wriggle free, stirring the faint stream of bubbles that slipped past his brother's slack lips.

Then he felt the water shift, pulse against him, shoving him back in a rush of bitter cold that pelted silt against his face. Through lake and tears, he watched as his brother stiffened, a sickening jolt of familiarity shaking him as he saw Dean's eyes roll up until they stared blindly, blankly at him, his brother's spine arching and shuddering as the 'Jack thrashed once in his arms and went still.

_NO!_

Screaming in his head, Sam flailed at the water, dragging himself through it with more power than finesse, everything forgotten but the need to reach his brother as the Halved Man slid limply out of his lax grasp and slipped down into the dark, fading out of sight as the younger man slung a desperate arm around his brother's torso.

He almost cried out as something seared into his forearm, choking the cry and the precious air back down. Pulling Dean with him, Sam tightened his grip, thrusting the pain in his arm to the back of his mind as he kicked and flailed with his free hand.

Blunt fingers dug at his arm, shoving at him and he looked down, never stopped kicking even as his heart skipped a beat as he caught sight of his brother's eyes, dark and deeper than the lake beneath them, shadowed with something that shifted uneasily.

Dean yanked his head free, kicked with a strength Sam couldn't begin to match but just as suddenly his body went slack again in the younger man's arm. Sam snatched at his brother's head, felt the blood drain from his own face as he saw the flash of pale features, lax and uncaring. Forcing the roaring in his ears away, he pinched Dean's nose shut with one hand and breathed air into his brother's lungs, clamping his hand over the older man's mouth and nose.

His vision dimming, he kicked mechanically, praying he'd given Dean enough stale air to keep him going, praying he had enough left himself to get them both to the surface that still seemed so far away.

When it broke over his head, he almost didn't know what to do. For an instant, still and quiet between the wild pounding of blood through his head, he stared up at the sky where there had only been water just moments before. Then instinct took over, a primal cry in the back of his mind, far below conscious thought opening his mouth and gulping in air, slipping the hand that was clamped over his brother's face away to tip Dean's head up.

Laughter bubbled up as he felt the older man's chest heave under his arm, turned sour and hysterical as the burning sensation deepened against his wrist, searing and without the water to numb it he recognised it instantly.

The scar on his palm itched and his laughter drained away.

"S'my?"

Sam bit his lip, dragged a lie up from somewhere.

"I'm fine."

Dean sighed, sputtered a little as a wave washed over them. Shaking his head, long bangs flopping around and spraying droplets everywhere, Sam let the older man pull away, start swimming slowly to shore. He followed, arms and legs leaden, shivers wracking his body as the adrenaline faded away and left nothing but the cold.

They crawled out of the lake, sprawling side by side on the mud, panting in the dregs of the rain as the storm blew itself to tatters in the sky above them.

Lying there, staring up at the stars as they played hide and seek with the frayed clouds, Sam only saw the Halved Man, writhing in his brother's hold then slipping limply away. In the desperate, burning rush to get them both to the surface, he'd ignored what he knew he'd seen but now he couldn't shake it off, two voices playing over and over in his head.

'_There was a priest, back in the seventeenth century or so, said they carry the grave with them, like death riding on their shoulder.'_

'_Once ya tell me yes dere ain't no goin' back. No' for eider of ya, no matter what come. No matter what it do to ya.'._

He swallowed hard, tasting water and salt on his tongue as the ghede murmured in his head, his own voice a soft echo.

'_I'm scared, Dean, 'cause I think whatever it was he did is taking you away again.'_

"What happened?"

His whisper was so hoarse, he almost didn't recognise it. He waited, could almost feel his brother trying to work out a lie.

"I don't know."

If his whisper was rough, his brother's was like broken gravel tumbling through shattered glass, breathless with pain. Sam rolled his head over, grit scratching at his skin as he watched Dean stare up at the sky.

"I thought..."

The older man trailed off, coughing weakly, mouthing a silent, vicious curse and squeezing his eyes shut. Mud trickled out between his fingers as he dug them into the ground, shoulders twisting with the effort.

"Hold on," Sam murmured, clambering wearily to his feet, hissing with pain as his ribs protested the sudden motion. He stumbled to the bag, dropped at the lake side hours earlier and dug inside it, pulling free a cracked, empty water bottle with a huff of irritation. Digging deeper, his fingers closed around glass and he hefted the half-full whiskey bottle eyeing it speculatively, casting a quick glance back to where his brother still lay, pale, face taught with pain.

Unscrewing the cap, Sam swallowed a hefty gulp of the liquor, grimacing as it burned down his gullet, sighing as it drove away the chill of the lake. There was nothing such a small quantity could do about the deeper cold of seeing the creature die at his brother's touch.

_...they carry the grave with them..._

"Here," he rasped as he wandered back to his brother's side, holding out the bottle. Dean cracked open one eye, blinked up at him in surprise, forcing out a single word.

"Water?"

"Bottle got smashed. It's this or the lake."

The older man grimaced and levered himself upright as he spun the top off the bottle, hesitating a moment before taking a long sip. All Sam could do was wince in sympathy as Dean swore again and curled in on himself, letting the bottle slip from his fingers to thud gently into the mud.

The younger man reached down, offering a hand, trying not to flinch as his brother took it. He failed, and for a moment he thought Dean would refuse his help. Then the older man's fingers wrapped determinedly around his, the touch cold but suddenly so familiar he felt his breathing stutter as salt burned his eyes.

Together, they staggered back to the car, pausing every dozen slow, faltering steps to take a swig from the bottle Dean had snagged from the mud as Sam pulled him up. Neither one spoke as they dropped into the seats, into the easy familiarity that had never felt so strange to Sam. Even after the truck wrecked the car, even after Cold Oak and New Harmony, he'd never felt lost in the car.

Never felt like it wasn't home.

"I thought I was gone, Sam."

The younger man closed his eyes and sank down into the leather, breathing in the same old scent of leather and gun oil. It sickened him.

"I thought _'I'm dead. This is it. back down to the pit again.'"_

'_round and round the Winchesters go...'_

He reached out blindly, fingers hitting the dial on the radio, drowning the demon's voice with a soft rush of guitar and drums.

"All I had to do was hold on to that bastard and take it with me. And then... I don't know," Dean whispered again and Sam listened to the damp squelch of sodden clothes as his brother leant wearily against the door.

"I just... it went so cold. Like before. And then you were there."

"You killed it."

"What?"

A smirk crinkled his lips at the confusion in the older man's voice.

"I saw you holding on to it, then... like before." He echoed his brother's words, fighting to see through the memory of watching him convulsing on a motel bed, watching him dying. "You were seizing, and it just died. Just... stopped. Like you'd drawn the life right out of it."

They were silent for a long time then, as songs faded together and the sky cleared, stars wheeling slowly by overhead until they paled and died in the sunrise. Sam was staring, more asleep than awake when his brother spoke again.

"I felt it."

He blinked up at the roof, realised his eyes were gritty and aching and turned to look at the older man.

"I felt it die. I thought I was just... hallucinating, or something, but I felt it. Like it drained into me. What the hell's going on with me, Sam?"

_...like death riding their shoulder..._

He shook the thought away, couldn't stop it coming back. _He killed it. He was dying and then he took its life. The bindings, _he realised, feeling his heart stutter. _The revenant spell and then the ghede in the hospital. He was bound by a god of the dead, twice. What if..._

Aloud, he murmured, "I don't know."

Dean nodded slowly, casting his eyes down to the dashboard, as if looking across at him was too much.

"But we'll figure it out."

Sam wished he could stop his voice trembling as he said it, wished he could remember what it was like when his brother was a superhero, unbeatable, unbreakable. He leant forward, hesitating as pain washed over him, grabbing the wheel to hold himself up. It passed slowly and he started the engine, pulling away from the lake, never looking up to see it disappear into the dawn as they headed west, into the dark again, both brothers holding tight to the promise.

**_fin_**

**_Chapter titles and lyrics:_**

_**1: **All Misery/Flowers, The Gutter Twins  
**2: **Friend Of A Friend, Foo Fighters  
**3: **Dust In The Wind, Kansas  
**4: **This Is It, Staind  
**5: **Seven Stories Underground, The Gutter Twins  
**6: **Bone Driven, Bush  
**7: **Evil Angel, Breaking Benjamin  
**8: **The Crowing, Coheed & Cambria  
**9: **Pardon Me, Staind  
**10: **Hit The City, Mark Lanegan with PJ Harvey  
Fear Of The Dark, Iron Maiden  
**11: **Make Me Believe This Is Real, I AMm Ghost  
Nobody's Fault But Mine, Beth Rowley__  
**12:** When Your Number Isn't Up, Mark Lanegan_


End file.
